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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27763870">repeat until death</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugdensquad/pseuds/sugdensquad'>sugdensquad</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Emmerdale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aaron Dingle/Robert Sugden Reunion 3.0, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reunion 3.0, Trauma, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:21:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,725</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27763870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugdensquad/pseuds/sugdensquad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It starts with a letter.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He sends it out like a Hail Mary, not expecting anything in return. But still hoping. Still quietly hoping that, despite everything, his words might change things. That it's not really too late...</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aaron Dingle/Robert Sugden</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>196</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>401</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was borne mostly out of a strange sense of nostalgia, melancholy and frustration. I really wanted to create something for their universe again, something that would be painful (obviously, it's me), bittersweet and ultimately fulfilling. Considering I've only written the first chapter so far, I have no idea if I'll be able to achieve any of these elements, but that's definitely what I'm aiming for. </p><p>So, if you would like to join me on this adventure of imagining what would happen once Robert is released from prison, then keep reading...</p><p>Title inspiration: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zbnjLHZfC9I&amp;ab_channel=NovoAmor">repeat until death</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It starts with a letter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sends it out like a Hail Mary, not expecting anything in return. But still hoping. Still quietly hoping that, despite everything, his words might change things. That it's not really too late. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But for three weeks he gets nothing. He starts to look pathetic, waiting impatiently by his cell door for the warden to pass with the mail, looking like a kicked dog when he receives nothing. Even the other inmates start to avoid his gaze when the post arrives, as if sensing his desperation and inevitable disappointment. He tells himself that it was always going to happen, that there was no other possibility. He hadn't ever <em>really </em>believed that he'd get a response, not after all this time. It was just a fantasy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And of course, just as he's convinced himself of this, it arrives. A single sheet of lined paper, already opened by the prison warden and now in his hands. The rounded handwriting is achingly familiar and he thumbs each word, reading it over once, twice, a third time just to be sure. A pressure builds, ballooning inside his chest, insisting to be felt. It’s bittersweet and melancholy and beautiful. He’s never been so ready to be consumed by his emotions. Well... not in a long time, anyway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The 15th brings with it a taste of Spring which, for the first time in years, Robert is able to experience properly. The gates close at his back, a meagre bundle of belongings cradled in his arms, and in front of him a car parked a few metres away from the fence, engine thrumming. The lights flash once and Robert goes, legs weak. When the door opens, his breath catches and he has to stop, unable to take in the person in front of him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hello stranger,” she says, and he can’t speak. Won’t. Not when he knows that the only sound he’d make would be more a sob than actual words. She’s so different, and yet exactly as he remembered her. Long, fair hair scraped into an unruly bun punctured with an impressive amount of pencils. Her cheeks are still rosy from the cool, April wind and her smile is warm as sunshine. He can hardly believe she’s here, and has nothing to offer her that would remotely show how grateful he is.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come on, then,” she says, rubbing at her arm. She’s awkward, wary. It breaks him a little, unsure of what it is exactly she’s worried about. He knows he’s not the same – eight years of solitude has changed him in ways he had never thought possible, and he knows some of it shows on his face. There are lines and creases which cannot be attributed to age alone, shadows beneath his eyes which don’t speak just of exhaustion. He knows, but it still hurts to realise that she sees it too. <br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He slides carefully into the passenger seat, adjusting the carrier bag that is his whole life onto his lap. Liv positions herself behind the wheel, a strange sight in itself, and then pauses. She chews on her bottom lip, a trait which reminds him so much of– </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Robert’s mind swerves violently, as it always does when he comes close to thinking about... <em>him</em>. Still, it’s hard to think of anything else with his sister sat right there.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“All right?” he asks, and the sound of his voice is enough to startle her. She turns to face him, and just takes him in. He lets her, knowing she’d need to do it at some point. His heart judders as her eyes skim over his ashen face, his hunched shoulders, his narrow chest. He’s skinny now – he never did get used to prison food – and he’s pale, too. It must be a shock for her, especially considering she hasn’t seen him in almost a decade.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I thought it’d feel weirder,” she admits before offering up a weak smile. He tries for one of his own but it falters and falls before ever fully forming.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah?”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She nods, hesitant. “It’s like the last few years just... haven’t happened. Like you never left.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He wishes he could say the same, but he can still smell the taint of prison on his clothes, still feel the weight of all that loneliness pressing down on him. No, if he thinks too long on it, he can remember every tortuous second of his time inside. It’s ingrained within him, like the rings of a tree.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Liv possibly senses it too because she hurriedly pushes the car into gear and jolts the car forward. It gives him an opportunity to relax a little, let his back ease into the seat, rest his head against the cold, glass window. He knows he should be making an effort, forcing some small talk, asking how she’s been. He has no idea who she is anymore, what she’s doing, where she’s living. He’d sent the letter to Mill Cottage, hoping it would somehow find the right recipient, praying to God it wasn’t opened by anyone other than Liv herself. But he has no idea if she’s still in Emmerdale, or if she’s long since moved on.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He opens his mouth to ask but can’t quite bring himself to say the words. He knows the conversation could lead so easily down paths he’d rather not venture along yet. So instead he remains silent, deciding that if she wants to talk then she will. Liv’s never been shy. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes till they hit the M1 for her to finally say something. She’s been drumming her fingers with gradually increasing speed for twenty minutes, and now with just an endless motorway ahead, she must feel the need to break the tension that has built to an almost physical presence. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I couldn’t believe it at first... when I got your letter.”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He pushes himself upright, putting the bag by his feet so he can clasp his hands together. “I know. It must’ve been weird... hearing from me after all this time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think I was more surprised you wrote to <em>me</em>.”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t dare ask who she thought he’d write to first. He already knows what answer she’d give, and he doesn’t know if he can bear to hear her say his name. Not yet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I did call Vic as well, to warn her," he says, ignoring the fact that Liv hadn't been thinking about his sister. "But she’s got the kids and I didn’t want her bringing them to... well, you know.” <br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Liv nods, lips pressed firmly together. He wonders what it is she’s holding back, but maybe it’s best if he doesn’t know. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They lapse into a brief silence and he chances a look across at her. She is different, now that he thinks about it. Still recognisable, still Liv, but she’s grown into herself. There’s a confidence to her posture that hadn’t existed before. Back then she'd worn her attitude like a suit of armour, but now she seems... comfortable in her own skin. He’s glad. She deserved not to feel like she always needed to be on the defensive.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She scratches at her scalp and he knows instinctively that he’s been staring too long. He shifts his gaze to look out of the windscreen, and it doesn’t take long for her to start glancing in his direction. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Does the... um... does the prison sort you out? With a place to stay and things?” He can hear the concern in her voice and he forces himself to appear brighter, masking the fear that’s been knotting in his stomach ever since they drove away from the gates.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, my probation officer has organised a flat for me in Leeds. I've got the address here.” He passes the post-it note to her and Liv sticks it to the dashboard. Wendy, who was always mildly harassed at all times and talked at a hundred-miles a minute, had shown him a picture of the flat in question a few weeks earlier. It was on a council estate, in an area of Leeds that Robert knew by reputation alone. Still, it had to be better than a cell no bigger than a postage stamp. At least he’d be able to cook for himself again. <br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s good,” she says, but it sounds too forced, as if she’s trying to convince herself more than him. He wants to say that he’s fine, that the most important thing is that he’s free, but the words sound hollow even in his head. They both know this isn’t the way his release should have been. There’s a piece of the jigsaw missing, an absence which only yawns wider the more they both avoid it. <br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They drift back into quiet and Robert contents himself with watching the landscape change from concrete and steel to rich, rolling hills. It’s like a hook lodged somewhere behind his ribs, tugging incessantly, drawing him home. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed it until now. There’s a constancy to the countryside, a steady reassurance which has him letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Good to be back</em>, he thinks, and at least part of him believes it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You must be hungry,” Liv says suddenly, and doesn’t wait for his reply before pulling into Skelton Lake Services. He remembers coming here, not long after it had opened. He’d stopped off to get petrol and grab a sandwich after a business meeting in Leeds. He’d sat in the car park and called home, not wanting to eat on his own when he could have the person he missed most keeping him company down the line. <br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not a memory he’d thought to relive in prison and so the rawness of it catches him off guard. Such a simple moment, barely worth remembering at all, and yet Robert has to dig his fingernails into his thigh just to keep himself together. Liv is too busy trying to reverse bay park to realise and he manages to compose himself enough by the time she’s finally straightened the car.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What do you fancy?” she asks as they head towards the glass, automatic doors. He has no idea. He hasn’t eaten proper food in years, isn’t sure he could even take it now. Still, the smells of various cuisines are tantalising to his starved stomach and they find themselves heading for a tiny Mexican restaurant tucked into the corner of the ground floor. They’re seated quickly - it’s barely twelve on a Monday and so the restaurant is empty except for them and the servers. <br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once they’ve ordered, which takes Robert an embarrassingly long time to do because of the overwhelming choice, he has no option but to meet her gaze. She’s unapologetic now, staring at him expectantly, though he has no idea what it is she wants him to say. Eventually, she says it for him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why aren’t you coming back to Emmerdale?”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not the question itself so much as the directness of it which takes him so unawares. He chokes a little on a piece of ice from his water that he’d been chewing, swallowing the freezing shards quickly so that he has more of a chance to breathe.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It wouldn’t be a good idea,” he argues, but her frown tells him that either she doesn’t believe that, or she doesn’t agree.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s your home,” she counters, but of course that’s not true. It’s where he grew up, it’s where he’d planned his future, where he’d hoped to grow old. But it stopped being his home the moment that cell door locked behind him. How could he possibly go back there now, as if nothing had ever happened? And what sort of welcome would he receive even if he did?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Trust me, Liv. It’s better for everyone if I just stay away.” He says it as firmly as he’s able, though really all he sounds is tired. And he is. He’s the kind of tired that sits heavy deep in your bones, the kind that makes you feel a little bit unsteady, a little bit mad.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She sees it, too. Tactfully changes the subject onto something lighter, less dangerous. “I’ve got an exhibition in a few months.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks up, confused. “An exhibition?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She hums a confirmation just as the waiter appears. He sets down their plates of food and then makes a retreat. Liv takes a slow bite of her fajita before setting it down again to properly answer his question. “The college have asked me and a couple others back to show our work to the students. Prove to them that you can actually make some cash from being an artist.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The guilt sets like cement in his gut, reducing his appetite to ashes. He hadn’t even asked her how she was. “That’s great, Liv,” he tries now, knowing it’s too late. “I’m so proud of you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She won’t look at him, bottom lip sucked into her mouth, sleeves pulled over her knuckles. <em>Two peas in a pod</em>, he thinks, and has to turn his face away. God, but he never thought it would be this hard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll need to come and see it,” he says, fighting through the grief. She looks up now, eyes a little red, but hopeful all the same. It kills him almost as much as her tears.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah?” she asks, and it’s said so softly that he doesn’t hesitate. Reaches right across the table and covers her hand with his. She looks so small all of a sudden, back to the young girl he still remembers her being.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes.” It’s said like a promise, a vow, and he hopes she hears it. Hopes she knows that he’d never let her down, not again. <br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her eyes are wet now and she has to wipe them fiercely with her sleeve. He keeps hold of her hand, squeezing it tightly until she can pull herself together. Eventually she laughs, weak and breathless, but at least it’s something.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What am I like?”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>You’re like him</em>, Robert wants to say, but it’s too much to give a voice to those words. It would surely fracture what little sanity he had managed to claw back for himself, never mind what it would do to Liv. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They sit quietly for a while, Robert eating a few grains of rice and refusing to look at Liv who he knows is staring at him. He can feel the worry radiating off of her in waves, knows he should make an effort to eat more or attempt a smile, but he hasn’t the energy. He’s trying his best, but as usual it’s well short of the mark.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When they finally leave, Liv having subtly paid the bill while Robert went to the loo, the weather has taken a turn for the worse. The wind sinks its teeth into them as they hurry across the car park and clamber inside. Liv’s bun has disintegrated, most of her hair now falling in sections around her face, and his doesn’t look much better if his reflection is anything to go by. He shoves the sun visor back up, not wanting a reminder of what he looks like. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The rest of the journey is filled with safe conversation: what Liv’s been doing since she left college; the state of the latest government; even global warming gets a mention. Of course they both know what they’re really doing, circling round all the things neither of them are brave enough to broach. It’s good though - after years of only having prison guards and the occasional inmate to chat to, it’s nice to be able to <em>talk </em>to someone again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe we should stop at a supermarket? Pick up some bits and pieces for your flat?”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t want her wasting her money on him, but he has no idea if he has any of his own left and he knows it’s going to take a while to get back on his feet. So reluctantly he accepts her offer and they quickly run into Tesco’s. It’s like a supermarket sweep, grabbing anything they can think he might need for the next week or so. He only accepts the basics, won’t let her splash out on a few home furnishings.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’ll look so bare otherwise!” she complains, picking up a plain, navy cushion and hugging it to her chest. It’s the same tone of voice she used when they had gone on shopping trips together, back when he was the one treating her. <em>How times change</em>. <br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’ll be fine. Anything like that I can get myself... once I’ve got a job.” He adds it as an afterthought, but really it’s been playing on his mind for a while. Wendy had told him that getting employment was always one of the hardest things for a prisoner to do, and he knows there can’t be many companies eager to take on a convicted murderer, and certainly nowhere which would see him rise like he’d been able to before. He doesn’t even want to think about what he’ll be forced to accept, but still the idea of spending everyday in some mind-numbing call centre or stocking shelves fills him with a sickening dread.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a storm kicking up as Liv drives them through the bright city streets and out into the dodgier end of town. Sprawling architecture and leafy suburbs quickly gives way to graffiti'd bus stops and dog shit smeared on pavements. They pass a police car which has stopped to have a 'friendly' chat with some lads on bikes, and despite knowing he’s free, that he’s served his time, the sight of those blue flashing lights is enough to make him twitch. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The flat is eleven floors up, and of course the lift is broken. Not that Robert or Liv would have used it considering how it reeks of piss and no doubt other bodily fluids. So they take the concrete stairs, the wind howling past them, and neither says a word even if they’re thinking the same thing. <em>This isn’t going to work. </em>Except it has to. Except he has no other choice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By the time they’ve reached the correct door, Robert’s head is swimming. He’s barely eaten and climbing those last few flights of stairs has almost floored him. Even Liv is panting a little, but she takes the key from him all the same. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The first thing he smells is damp. The hallway has been wallpapered badly and there’s an ominous black patch glistening in the far corner, up by the ceiling. Liv wrinkles her nose and he feels ashamed, despite knowing he didn’t choose this place. They head into the kitchen and then halt, because they can’t both fit. There are only two cupboards with one housing the plumbing for the sink, and a cooker that looks as if someone has been making meth in it. The single window is opaque with grime and cobwebs, and the fire alarm is hanging by its rainbow-coloured wires. They back out immediately and head for the living room, which is only marginally better. A two-seater sofa that wouldn’t look out of place in the 50s, a coffee table with one of the legs broken off, and a few brackets on the wall where a TV must once have been. It’s so far from what he had expected that he can’t even complain. Really all he wants to do is cry.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, it’s...” Liv begins then quickly stops, desperately trying to find even one positive word she can use. “It’s cosy. You won’t need much to keep the place warm.” <br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He can’t even pretend to be grateful. Not now. Not when he’s just been handed another prison sentence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sure once you... I mean, if you get a few candles, cushions... A nice rug. It just needs some TLC,” she continues, and he nods because he doesn’t know what else to do. He can’t believe this is going to be his life from now on. Stuck in a crumbling high-rise and with only a dead-end, minimum wage job to look forward to and the possibility of one day, in the distant future, being able to save up enough to replace the furniture. He never thought he’d say it, but he’s pretty sure that prison was better than this.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe if you... maybe we could...” He can hear her struggling and forces himself out of his paralysis.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re right. Bit of redecorating and it’ll feel like home in no time,” he says, sounding more convincing than he feels. She looks at him, a plea in her eyes, and he offers his most winning smile to try and balance out the devastation they both feel. He can’t help but compare this flat to the home he’d had before, the one he can still vividly recall if he allows himself. The Mill had been all theirs – every room, every piece of furniture, even the bloody cutlery had been chosen together. It had been their chance to create something that was their own. <br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Even if he spent the next decade putting the same amount of energy into this place, it would never feel like his. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The honesty of it pulls him up short and he sways a little, rocking back on his heels as he just <em>stares </em>at the sheer depressing scale of the place. He can sense Liv beside him, back chewing her lip again, anxiously awaiting his inevitable breakdown. He’d forgotten how well she knew him, how easily she could read his changes in mood. He’d thought that that connection, that <em>bond</em>, might have broken when he cut all ties with her, but he’s relieved and terrified to find it’s just as strong now as it ever was.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"Right,” he says, if for no other reason than to bring his thoughts back into the present. “Let’s get all this unpacked and then I better let you go. It’ll be dark soon.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t wait for her response, already heading back into the hallway where they had dropped the shopping bags. He gets to work instantly, opening the only available cupboard – which has a thick layer of dust and oil obscuring the shelves - and begins stacking the tins and packets of pasta and rice. It feels good, actually, to be busy. It’s a necessary distraction from whatever is awaiting him once Liv leaves and he’s left here alone. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She kneels in the doorway, passing him a box of laundry powder, a pack of sponges, a pair of oven gloves. He takes them each in turn, offering meaningless responses like <em>great </em>and <em>thanks </em>and <em>almost done</em>. It doesn’t take long to fill up, and soon there’s nothing left to do but stand again, now with the weight of an unsaid goodbye heavy in the air between them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Liv looks as if she’s waiting for him to say or do something, but he can’t read her. He doesn’t know what she wants – A promise to see each other soon? A confirmation that this was a one-time thing and he won’t bother her again? He’s scared to pick wrong and be met with rejection or heartbreak. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His arms hang limp by his sides, fingers curling into his palms out of frustration and fear. There’s another beat of quiet and then Liv huffs a sigh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll go... let you get settled,” she says, but her voice is hoarse and tight with anger. By doing nothing, he’s spoken volumes. She heads for the door, bag swung over her shoulder, and he stands half in the kitchen, half in the hallway, watching her leave and knowing he has no right to ask her for anymore, but wanting it all the same.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Liv–”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes?” She turns back, hopeful, and he knows. He just knows... he can’t.<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Drive safe.”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sees the light fade in her eyes and makes a silent promise to himself that he will never, <em>ever </em>contact her again. It had been cruel of him to do it this time, to drag her into his life once more only to force her back out into the cold. She won't forgive him for this. Not again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks.” It’s said without emotion and then the front door is opened, letting in a blast of icy air which makes him shudder. She gives him one final look and he raises a hand, unable to get the word out, and the disappointment written across her face cuts deeper than any knife. <br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then she’s gone. The door swings closed with a gentle click but it might as well have been slammed shut. He draws in breath like a man drowning but still his lungs shrink, tighten. There’s a dark silence which oozes from the walls, enveloping him, strangling him. It’s exactly how he felt that first night, away from home and fourteen long years stretching out in front. Only there’s no end in sight now. No deadline where he can cross off days knowing there's only so many left. It's a strange sensation, to know for a fact that you're free and yet to feel so utterly and completely trapped.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He feels suddenly cold. The single, bare bulb in the hall dangles, its mustard yellow light making his skin look sallow. He turns it off and pads slowly, carefully through to the living room, hands brushing the walls, feeling his way in the darkness. Ironically, the flat looks much better without the lights on. He can almost forget the chintz, frilled sofa and the brown carpet. Instead he envisages bare wood, high ceilings, a fireplace and a big TV so that all the family can–</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His legs buckle. One minute he's standing, the next he's on his hands and knees, chest pounding. It takes him a minute to realise that his body's reacting to the loud, incessant knocking rather than because of his impossible fantasies. He has to crawl to the broken coffee table to haul himself upright, and in the dark he manages to crack the side of his head off the doorframe trying to get back to the hallway. He feels dazed, not quite back in reality, half of him still clinging onto the dream version of his home, but he sobers immediately when he finally opens the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Liv?”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her cheeks are stained with tears, lashes wet and clumped together, lips parted. Her chest is heaving, like she's been running, and her breath comes in shallow, broken gasps. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come home," she says, simple as that, as if it's all that's needed. “Come home with me.” It's not framed like a question, but regardless, he still knows what his answer will be. Because what other possible answer could he give?<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Let’s go.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Took a little longer than anticipated but it is finally here! </p><p>Thank you so much for all the love for this fic already. I am absolutely blown away by your kindness and it reminds me just how utterly fantastic this fandom is and why I love writing for it. Hopefully you all enjoy this instalment as much as the first! x</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He feels like a criminal, stealing into Emmerdale under the cover of darkness.</p><p>Only, in truth he barely gets to see the village he once called home, because Liv keeps driving past the turn off. Instead she heads for a bland, beige development on the outskirts, signposted by its stock photo billboard screaming words like <em>executive </em>and <em>luxury. </em>It’s so far from what he expected that he remains mute in the passenger seat even as she slides neatly into one of the designated bays.</p><p>“You live here?” he can’t help but ask as he follows her towards the main door. Liv ignores him for a second, fishing for her keys, but eventually she casts him a furtive look which he has no idea how to read.</p><p>“Sort of,” is the only reply she gives, and then ducks inside before he has a chance to question her further.</p><p>The flat is on the first floor, and Liv hesitates before opening the door, as if she’s worried about something. She glances his way again, only now her expression has changed to one of anxiety.</p><p>“Just... stay here a second.” Again, she disappears before he has time to fully process her request, so he has little option but to do as he’s told, standing awkwardly on the landing and hoping no one comes out of a neighbouring flat to question why he’s here.</p><p>He can hear voices emanating from within, though he has no idea who the second person is or what they’re saying. He briefly contemplates the idea of being suddenly reunited with the one person he never expected to see again, but quickly puts that thought firmly out of his mind. There would be no reason for them both to be sharing this apartment, not when Mill Cottage was already their home. It just wasn’t possible.</p><p>Still, he finds himself creeping closer in some vain attempt at deciphering the voices that had started to rise a little. In fact, he’s almost at the door when it suddenly opens, revealing a slightly flushed Liv.</p><p>“Come in,” she says, though it comes out a little sharper than he hopes it was intended to be. He goes, not wanting to check if she’s sure in case she changes her mind.</p><p>The hallway is as bland and beige as the rest of the building, complete with fake wood flooring and a tacky sign on one wall that reads <em>Home is where the heart is. </em>He grimaces for a number of reasons and then shuffles through into the living room where he’s met by the very last person he expected to find.</p><p>“Long time no see.”</p><p>Though she looks entirely different to the teenager he vaguely remembers, she is still unmistakably familiar.</p><p>“Gabby?”</p><p>She smiles, wide and bright, and perches herself on the arm of the grey, velvet sofa. She’s tall, legs stretching out for miles, and her curly hair has been scraped back into a tight ponytail. She looks him up and down with a mixture of intrigue and superiority, and he finds himself standing a little straighter.</p><p>“Good to know you still remember me,” she says, then adds: “It has been a while.”</p><p>The minuscule change to her tone is noted by both him and Liv, who clears her throat and drops her bag loudly on the floor.</p><p>“I thought we could get takeaway - we’ve had a long drive.” Liv doesn’t wait for an answer, immediately grabbing her laptop from the narrow dining table that’s been squished into the corner of the living-room. Gabby, reluctantly, goes to sit beside her so the pair of them can work out where to order from the restricted list of options.</p><p>Robert has no idea what to do. The carrier bag of belongings is hanging depressingly from two of his fingers, and he places it quietly on the floor beside him. Only that leaves his hands now empty and devoid of purpose. He feels a little like a child, waiting for a grown up to tell him where to go or what to do. He doesn’t feel he can sit, but standing like some socially awkward statue is hardly any better.</p><p>Eventually Liv looks up, as if remembering he’s here, and pats the sofa cushion on the other side of her. “What do you fancy?”</p><p>He goes, gingerly lowering himself into the uncomfortably small gap that’s been left for him, and presses himself as far into the arm of the sofa as he physically can. She shows him the screen with its checklist menu - a worrying mixture of Chinese and Italian. He has no appetite, but saying that to Liv will only worry her, so eventually he opts for Kung Pao Chicken. Liv orders, carefully typing in her credit details, and Robert feels that same searing stab of guilt that she’s taking care of him. It should be the other way around. After all, he was at one time her guardian.</p><p>Gabby, possibly sensing the unparalleled levels of awkwardness, excuses herself to go and have a quick shower before the food arrives. Liv is still staring intently at the screen, waiting for the order to be confirmed, and Robert slides his hand along the velvet fabric, dragging the pile in the opposite direction then smoothing it down again. He’s desperate to ask what’s going on, why she’s living with Gabby and not in the village, but it’s not his place. If she wanted him to know, she would have said earlier. There must be a reason she’s kept it a secret.</p><p>“Good,” she says cheerily, and he checks to see that the order now has a green tick across it and a time of approximately 30 minutes. She closes the laptop lid and slides it onto the glass coffee table. They’re still sandwiched next to each other even with Gabby gone, Liv’s knee pressed hard into his thigh, the angular arm of the sofa digging into his ribs. He can’t believe how terrible he’s become at this - making small talk, faking geniality for an easy life. He used to be the master at things like this.</p><p>“Liv–”</p><p>“I should get plates,” she says, too loudly, as if trying to drown out whatever it was he was going to say. He’s not even sure he knows himself, but her urgent and visceral response just to her name alone tells him not to try again. She doesn’t want to talk, not about anything meaningful. As generous as she’s being, letting him stay, being kind, she won’t let him in. She won’t trust him with the important things.</p><p>He almost, <em>almost</em>, wishes he was back in his flat.</p><p>They work quietly, Liv passing him plates and cutlery which he arranges first on the dining table, then on the coffee table after Liv says they never usually eat at the former. Liv pointedly refuses to look directly at him, as if somehow that will prevent any prying questions.</p><p>When Gabby eventually emerges, looking hopefully between them, it’s plainly clear that neither have been able to muster up enough courage to say more than a few words.</p><p>“Shouldn’t be long,” Liv manages cheerily, nodding her head at the laptop screen which tells them the takeaway is only a few minutes away. Gabby glances at Robert, a question in her eyes, and he subtly shakes his head. <em>Don’t ask</em>. She must understand his meaning, if not the reason why, because she settles herself on the sofa, right in the middle, and switches on the television.</p><p>When the takeaway arrives, ten minutes late and lukewarm, he’s so relieved to finally have something to do that he wolfs down half his plate in minutes and then feels nauseous. The girls chat to each other, mainly Gabby sharing one dramatic anecdote after another from her day at work, while Liv snorts and rolls her eyes. Robert concentrates on trying to keep down the greasy chicken which now sits like lead in his stomach.</p><p>“D’you think I could go for a shower?” he asks suddenly, pushing his plate with its congealing brown mass back onto the coffee table. Gabby and Liv look at him, both startled at his sudden question, but nod all the same.</p><p>“Go ahead,” Gabby says, pointing down the hall. He goes immediately, grabbing the plastic bag from the floor, and ignores the burning sensation of two pairs of eyes staring into the back of his head.</p><p>The bathroom is a terrifying kaleidoscope of wet towels, potted plants, and all manner of bottles strewn across every available surface. <em>I’m too old for this</em>, he thinks momentarily before locking the door and sliding down onto the damp tiled floor.</p><p>He can hear them murmuring softly down the hall and resolutely blocks them out. He doesn’t want to hear whatever it is they’re saying, because he’s certain it will have something to do with him. Instead he focuses on breathing - in, out, in, out, in… He feels as if he’s back there, that first night when the cell door shut behind him and he knew, deep in his bones, that this was it. Nowhere left to run, and no way to talk himself out.</p><p>The nausea rolls like a wave inside him and he draws his legs up to his chest, resting his forehead on his knees. He knows that he should turn on the shower, sit beneath the hot downpour and let it wash away his worries. But he can’t move. His muscles ache from exhaustion, and the inside of his head is opaque with fear. He can’t think clearly, can’t unscramble the jumbled up thoughts that keep rearranging themselves every time he gets close to grasping hold of one.</p><p>Maybe he should have stayed where he was. Though it was no palace, at least he would have had the chance to acclimate back into the real world without anyone watching his inevitable struggles. As much as he loves Liv for being so protective of him, for <em>caring</em> so much, he feels claustrophobic now thinking about her being so close to witness every time he stumbles or falters.</p><p>And of course there’s Gabby as well. He still can’t work out why the Hell Liv is staying here, and has seemingly been doing so for a while. He thinks about Mill Cottage, the place that should still be her home, <em>their</em> home, but quickly forces the image from his mind. No use dwelling on ghosts when the present is difficult enough.</p><p>Despite his still churning stomach, he manages to crawl across to the bath with its overhead shower and turns it on full. Steam quickly fills the tight, narrow space and he lets it work through his muscles as he strips off the too-loose shirt and trousers which he had last worn to court. The water burns his skin but he doesn’t mind – prison showers were barely tepid and only long enough to quickly wash and rinse. He bows his head, letting the wall of steam build up around him until he can’t see anything. The water drums against his back like hot fists and he breathes a heavy sigh. The weight of sleep presses against his shoulder blades, and so he grabs blindly for the nearest shampoo, soaps his hair with one hand, the other flat against the tiles, and then ducks beneath the shower again.</p><p>Ten minutes later he emerges back into the hall, pink and warm and in a pair of soft flannel pyjamas that he got for Christmas from Vic the year before he went inside. The fabric smells of the cheap washing powder used in the prison’s laundrette and he vows to wash every scrap of clothing he owns as soon as he’s able.</p><p>Liv is still in the living room, but Gabby is nowhere to be found.</p><p>“Good shower?” she asks, now standing.</p><p>He runs a hand through his damp hair. “Really good. Thanks.” He’d hoped, somehow, that their conversation would be less stilted once he returned. Evidently, that was too much to wish for.</p><p>She nods, lips pressed into a tight line, then roughly tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “I’ve made up the sofa for you. Duvet, pillows… There’a a blanket as well if you get cold.”</p><p>“Thanks,” he says again, looking at the nondescript grey duvet against the similarly grey sofa. <em>Prison colours</em>, he thinks absentmindedly. <em>Can’t get away from it.</em></p><p>Liv swallows, and he knows she wants to say something, can see the urgency of it in her eyes. He waits, equally desperate for her to speak, wanting to coax it from her but not sure if he should. She opens her mouth and he holds his breath.</p><p>“Feel free to watch TV,” she says, and his heart sinks a little with disappointment. “I usually have earphones in, and Gabby’s at the far end, so we won’t hear you.”</p><p>He nods and steps closer in at the side to let her pass. “Thank you.” He catches her eye as he says it, makes sure that he sounds sincere. He’s saying it not just for this, but for everything. All of it. He doesn’t deserve half of what she’s done for him. He doesn’t deserve <em>her</em>.</p><p>“Don’t mention it,” she answers, suddenly shy, and disappears down the hall.</p><p>The sofa, despite being rigid and uncomfortably small, is still a vast improvement on his previous bed. He curls his knees up to his chest, tucking the duvet under him, and buries his face in a pillow that, to him, feels more like a cloud. His body stays tense though. He’s waiting, listening out for any sudden noises, the clanging of cell doors, the shouts of prisoners swearing or crying. Instead he hears the gentle whirring of the fridge and the soft snuffles of either Liv or Gabby sleeping down the hall.</p><p>At almost midnight, he gets up to clean the dishes. He’s not tired, can’t get his brain to shut off, and there’s nothing else he can think to do which might give him something to focus on besides the nagging sense of dread clenching tight in his gut. He works slowly, methodically, and it takes almost half an hour for him to fully finish washing and drying every plate, glass, knife and fork. Still, when he returns to the sofa he feels just as awake as he had before.</p><p>Which is why, at half-past one, now certain he won’t be getting to sleep, he finds himself sliding on his shoes and picking up Liv’s keys without any idea of what he’s doing. His phone has been on charge for most of the evening and so he takes it, switching on the torch as he slips silently out of the building. It’s the fresh air that he wants, a chance to clear his head and possibly tire himself out enough to sleep.</p><p>Except his feet take him in a familiar direction, and he hasn’t the willpower to turn around and go back. The main street is deserted, every light turned off. Very little has changed - the pub has had a fresh lick of paint and the cafe has had a small extension added to the side. The shop had been selling pumpkins when he’d gone inside, but now he can see Easter eggs in the windows. His throat aches and he inhales sharply.</p><p><em>You knew it would be hard</em>, he tells himself, not that it helps. Knowing something and experiencing it are too very different things. He learned that several years ago when he said his final goodbye...</p><p>Mill Cottage stands just the same, draped in moonlight, looking as it always did in Robert’s dreams. Every stone and window is exactly as he remembers, and only the car in the drive has been changed. He wishes it gave him some comfort, to know that so little has been altered since he was last here, but if anything it only deepens his grief. It’s all too close to the life he had before, and too tempting to imagine himself stepping over its threshold and being greeted by the man he loves.</p><p>He turns swiftly, refusing to linger any longer. He’s tortured himself enough tonight, and he feels weariness pressing down on his shoulders. His feet drag a little as he heads back the way he came, and as much as he wants to believe it’s the result of tiredness, he knows that his body is equally as reluctant as his heart to leave this place behind him again. He gives it one final glance at the top of the road, wondering if he’ll have the chance to see it properly in daylight, and then points himself in the direction of his new, if temporary, home.</p><p>***</p><p>He wakes to the sound of an alarm shrilling somewhere within the flat. Patches of daylight are pooling on the floor and he shields his eyes with his hand. His head thumps badly, likely from a lack of sleep and hydration, and his mouth still tastes of the terrible Chinese the night before.</p><p>Soft footsteps in the hallway force him to sit up and he turns to see Gabby, hair wild, shuffling into the living room. She casts him an apologetic look before filling up the kettle.</p><p>“Did I wake you?” she asks and he shakes his head before realising she has her back to him now.</p><p>“No.” His voice is hoarse and he runs his tongue across his teeth before grimacing. He really needs to buy himself a toothbrush. “Is Liv up?”</p><p>“She won’t be awake for hours.” The ghost of a smile crosses his lips, remembering Liv's teenage self pointedly refusing to surface until morning had been and gone. If he thought long long enough, he could still recall the lazy Sunday mornings spent annoying her as she buried her face deeper into the pillow, and a deep and familiar laugh echoing down the hall, suggesting her brother was just as amused as Robert by her aversion to daylight.</p><p>“She was pretty vague about how long you were going to be here for?”</p><p>He looks up, that laugh still rebounding off the inside of his head, and blinks. “That your way of saying you want me gone?” The words sound defensive, almost angry, but really its panic that governs his shift in tone. He doesn’t want to go back to that flat, that <em>life. </em>Not yet.</p><p>Gabby, evidently, isn’t worried. She gives him a blank, uninterested look and takes another sip of her coffee. “Doesn’t bother me. Can’t imagine Aaron’ll be too happy when he finds out though.”</p><p>He stills.</p><p>He’s faintly aware of her eyes on him, watching patiently, but he doesn’t have enough control to paint on a mask of indifference. Instead he sits, quiet, letting the shock of it pulse through him. Eight years. He thought it might… hurt less. Or at least not be quite so destructive. After all, it’s just a name. It’s not as if the man himself is standing before him.</p><p>But it has the same effect. As though someone has their hand around his throat and is pressing tightly, mercilessly. His breath comes in shallow bursts, and he focuses on inhaling deeply to save his mind from obsessing over the name he hasn’t dared even <em>think </em>for so long.</p><p>“D’you mind if I get myself a glass of water?” he asks, standing as gracefully as he can considering he can’t fully feel his legs. But he needs to be up, talking, if for no other reason than to show that it hasn’t affected him. That he’s fine. Even if he isn’t. Even if he’s nowhere close.</p><p>“Help yourself.” She shifts into the corner so that he can turn on the tap. He feels her stare like an intense heat along the side of his neck, across his cheekbone. He waits, waits, knowing it’s only a matter of time before– “You know they’re not speaking, right?”</p><p>It’s not what he expects her to say, and it takes him a second or two, water now pouring over the rim of the glass, to process the words. “Who?”</p><p>“Liv and Aaron.” She says it matter-of-factly, like it’s obvious, like it’s not the most impossible combination of people she could have said. “He kicked her out.”</p><p>He turns the tap off sharply, abandoning the glass in the sink. He’s no longer thirsty. “What?”</p><p>“Yeah, I didn’t think she’d told you,” Gabby murmurs, putting down her own cup to fold her arms across her chest. “Two months ago.She told him a few home truths and he lost it with her. Grabbed her stuff and chucked it out onto the driveway.”</p><p>It makes no sense. Despite their years of separation, the pair had been closer than most siblings Robert knew, including his own. In those early, fledgling days of their relationship, Liv had posed a barrier to their happiness purely because of her deep-rooted bond to her brother. How could it be that now such a connection had been severed? What could she possibly have said that would cause him to lash out so badly?</p><p>“That doesn’t sound like–”</p><p>“She was in tears,” Gabby says firmly, brooking no argument. “Literally sobbing on my doorstep. He’s been a real dickhead to her.”</p><p>Robert still can’t get his head around it. Liv was always exempt from the worst excesses of his anger, shielded from any emotion he experienced that wasn’t love. If he threw her out, she must have said or done something truly terrible to warrant such rage.</p><p>“What were the home truths?”</p><p>Gabby, protective only seconds before, now shifts into something altogether more dangerous. “Why? That gonna justify it?” she asks, her voice sharp as steel.</p><p>“No,” he replies calmly. “I’m just interested.”</p><p>“Something about the bloke he was seeing. I don’t know all the ins and outs. I only know that he’s not spoken to her properly in weeks. And the rest of his lot have closed ranks.”</p><p><em>Something about the bloke he was seeing</em>. It sits heavy in his chest, the knowledge that his worst fear has been realised. Mad as it was, he'd still had hope. Just the faintest, smallest belief that their love, despite every obstacle, might still endure.</p><p>“His mum especially,” Gabby continues, unaware of Robert’s heart cleaving in two. “Chas gives her the evil eye every time she comes into the village. Me an’ all, especially if we <em>dare</em> go into the pub. No one can upset her precious son.”</p><p>Robert thinks back to every time they had separated, and the resulting glares from anyone remotely associated with the Dingle clan, particularly Chas. “Yeah, I remember that well enough,” he mutters, now picking up his glass again and taking a generous gulp. The weight against his ribs remains ever present.</p><p>“I’m just saying that she’s not exactly on good terms with them already, and if they find out she’s taken you in–”</p><p>“They won’t hear it from me,” he cuts her off. “I don’t exactly want them knowing either.”</p><p>Her shoulders drop a fraction. “Good. Well, I won’t be mentioning it to anyone. I’d like a quiet life, to be honest.”</p><p>She starts to head out of the kitchen, fluffy socks shuffling silently against the floor. He watches her for a second and then says, hurriedly: “Thanks for telling me.”</p><p>She pauses, offers a smile. “It’s nice to see someone else in her corner,” she says, then sobers, adding: “Although if you leave her again, I’ll break your legs.”</p><p>He’s in doubt she means it and nods, serious. “Right.”</p><p>There’s no need to reaffirm the guarantee and so she takes a sip of her no doubt lukewarm coffee and nods to the worktop behind him. “Bread’s in the bin if you want some toast. Or there’s cornflakes in that cupboard. Just help yourself.” She leaves before he can offer a reply and he’s glad to be alone so that he can ruminate over this newfound information.</p><p>He blindly grapples with the idea of Liv being thrown out of her home by the one person who is truly her family, the person who – up until now – Robert would have sworn would protect her above anything else. He would consider Gabby a liar if he thought she had anything to gain by such a deception, but he can’t think of any reason why she would concoct such a story unless it were true.</p><p><em>Why didn’t Liv tell me? </em>It stings, though he knows it shouldn’t. Either she didn’t trust him with this, which he can hardly blame her for, or she wanted to spare him having to hear any mention of her brother, which he should feel grateful about. Either way, it makes complete sense for her to have kept it hidden.</p><p>Not for the first time, he wishes he had been more present in her life. Though he could have done little behind bars, he might have been able to offer some support, or a non-judgemental ear to listen to her problems. Instead she had been abandoned, first by him, and now by her own flesh and blood. It’s a wonder she’s still standing.</p><p>He makes himself a slice of toast, knowing he has no intention of eating it, and leans his hip against the counter, still processing everything. His mobile, still in his pyjama bottoms from the previous night’s wander, suddenly buzzes against his thigh and he jumps violently. Half a message flashes up on the screen from Wendy, and he sighs before unlocking the phone so he can read it in full.</p><p>
  <b>Hope ur settling in well i thought i’d come c u 2day check all ok let me know when suits</b>
</p><p>Evidently she hasn’t moved out of the ‘text speak’ phase of the early noughties, or learnt to use punctuation. He rolls his eyes, inwardly grimacing that <em>this </em>is his probation officer, before suddenly remembering that he’s currently not staying in the agreed upon flat signed off by the parole board.</p><p><em>Could they put me back inside for not staying there?</em> He doesn’t know, but he shouldn’t take the chance. He texts back immediately:</p><p>
  <b>Settling in fine. Need some time to get organised etc. Maybe next week?</b>
</p><p>That should buy him some time, at least. He can spend a few days here with Liv, get back on his feet, repair the damage to their relationship, and then work out a better plan than staying in that godforsaken flat in the back end of nowhere.</p><p>His phone buzzes irritatingly quickly, and his stomach drops when he reads her answer.</p><p>
  <b>Needs to be today ill come round afternoon??</b>
</p><p>He wants to slam his head off a wall, but that would only leave a dent in his forehead and his probation officer still on the warpath. So instead he hurriedly types the only reply he can reasonably give.</p><p>
  <b>Fine. Not at the flat now though. Visiting family in Emmerdale. Might not be back till late evening?</b>
</p><p>Part of him hopes this might just be enough to convince her to delay the meeting, even if it is only by twenty-four hours. He’s barely washed the prison stench from his skin – he doesn’t want to be reminded so quickly of where he was only yesterday.</p><p>It takes a few minutes, but eventually his phones buzzes for a third time.</p><p>
  <b>No need ill come 2 u txt when im there</b>
</p><p><em>Great</em>, he thinks. <em>I can’t think of a better place to host my probation officer than the home I’m now an outcast from. What could possibly go wrong?</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I really like this chapter. I don't know why that comes as a surprise, but often with my writing, by the time I get to the end, I've found so many flaws that all I really want to do is tear it up.</p><p>But I'm strangely really enjoying the writing process for this fic. I'm having fun with it, not really taking it too seriously, and letting myself go where the muse takes me. (Does that sound as pretentious to you as it does to me? Apologies if so.)</p><p>Anyway! There is little action in this one but some of the jigsaw pieces find their correct slot which I always enjoy. Plus I finally get to properly introduce possibly my favourite OC ever in this chapter and you know how much I love an OC 👀 Hope you enjoy and if so, a comment or a kudos always goes a long way to boosting my ego!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">She’s aware he’s looking at her.</p><p class="p1">With each passing minute her shoulders inch closer to her ears, and her grip on her phone gets tighter and tighter. It should be enough to make him stop, to alter his gaze, but he can’t. Secretly he’s hoping she breaks and he can finally ask.</p><p class="p1">Only she doesn’t. She just keeps scrolling, keeps frowning, keeps pointedly ignoring the tangible expectancy radiating off him in waves. <em>Come on</em>, he thinks. <em>You know I don’t want to force this out of you.</em></p><p class="p1">When she gets up, breakfast half eaten, she asks him in a neutral tone: “Got any plans for today?” and that’s about as much as he can handle. </p><p class="p1">“Why didn’t you say you and your brother weren’t speaking?” It comes out as an accusation, brought on by almost two hours of waiting for Liv to wake up, and a further twenty minutes of watching her avoid the conversation by not acknowledging him. </p><p class="p1">She turns, freezing over the bin where she’d been scraping off crumbs from her plate, eyes wide like a dear in the headlights. And then that crease appears, right between her brows, and he knows he's done it. </p><p class="p1">“You what?”</p><p class="p1">She sounds like him. Sharp, antagonistic, but still painfully vulnerable. Robert wants to wrap her in a hug and tell her he’ll make it better. Even if he doesn’t know what went wrong in the first place.</p><p class="p1">“Gabby mentioned-” He gets no further before she advances, hands balled tight into little fists.</p><p class="p1">“What did she say?” It’s her turn to sound accusatory and he stands, backing up behind the sofa as a way of offering himself some protection from her wrath. </p><p class="p1">“Nothing. Nothing much,” he amends, scratching at his scalp for something to do. He’s gone about this all wrong - any social skills he once possessed have long since deserted him, and he doesn’t know how to approach anything gently anymore. He only knows how to charge like a bull in a china shop.</p><p class="p1">Her cheeks flush with anger and her mouth sets hard. “She should’ve kept her nose out,” she mutters, then gives him a cold glare. “So should you.”</p><p class="p1">It’s not explicitly said, but he still knows what she means. <em>This isn’t your business, not anymore. </em>It feels like a stinging slap to his face and he takes another step back, trying to distance himself from the guilt he feels.</p><p class="p1">“I’m here,” he says, and although he doesn’t add a quiet ‘now’ at the end, he thinks it all the same. “I want to know what... what happened? You and him were so close-”</p><p class="p1">She scoffs at this, cutting off anything else he might have wanted to say. “How would you know? The last time you saw us together I was still at school, and he hadn’t had his heart ripped out.”</p><p class="p1">His shoulder spasms, neck jerking so suddenly it forces him to turn his head away. Still the words echo cruelly inside his head.</p><p class="p1">“We stopped getting on once you... left. I was a mess, so was he. We just ended up having one row after another.”</p><p class="p1">He’s not sure if he dares speak yet, but he has to know. He has to understand. “Gabby said you fought about... about his boyfriend?”</p><p class="p1">She looks at him properly then, but the anger has simmered a little, and in its place another emotion takes hold. He thinks he recognises it as concern. </p><p class="p1">“Sounds like she’s told you it all.”</p><p class="p1">“No,” he disagrees. “There’s no way a little argument ended with him throwing you out of your home. There has to be more–”</p><p class="p1">“Do you think I did something?” The anger returns as swiftly as it left, and he mentally kicks himself for phrasing it the way he did. </p><p class="p1">“Of course not. I just mean... He wouldn’t fly off the handle unless it was serious.”</p><p class="p1">As he says this, her eyebrows rise gradually higher and higher until they’re in danger of meeting her hairline. He’s not entirely sure whether he’s about to be met with yet another tirade of yelling, but he braces nonetheless.</p><p class="p1">“I think you might have Aaron confused with someone else. Because the one I know flies off the handle at <em>everything</em>.”</p><p class="p1">She’s possibly not wrong. If he thinks long enough on it, he can bring to mind several occasions where the reaction hadn’t exactly matched the severity of the crime. Still, that had never really applied with Liv. She always got a free pass.</p><p class="p1">He can’t say this, though. Even if she’s not said it, he can tell the wound is far too fresh to be poked or made fun of.</p><p class="p1">“All right,” he concedes, pitching his voice lower, gentler. “He could blow things out of proportion. But then he’d calm down. So it has to be more than that if it’s been... what... <em>months </em>since you’ve spoken?”</p><p class="p1">“Three,” she confirms, and his mind boggles again. </p><p class="p1">“Then what happened?’</p><p class="p1">She sighs, coming to sit heavily back on the arm of the sofa, one leg tucked under her, the other foot barely reaching the floor. “It’s difficult to explain.”</p><p class="p1">“Why?”</p><p class="p1">“Because... it’s not like it was just <em>one </em>thing. I mean the argument over Niall was the last straw, but we had plenty of fights before that.”</p><p class="p1">Robert tries hard not to linger on the man’s name, but it sinks like a stone inside his chest. Niall. <em>Niall</em>. What a colossal fucking twat he sounds. </p><p class="p1">“Right at the beginning, just after you left, Aaron wasn’t interested in dating. He didn’t want to know. But then... it was like he was trying to force himself to move on. Like he thought if he could just... <em>be </em>with someone then he could make himself happy.”</p><p class="p1">Robert hates that thought, imagining him with a different bloke every week, trying each one on for size. It awakens something deep and primal within him. <em>Mine</em>, he thinks, but of course it’s not true. He hasn’t belonged to Robert in years.</p><p class="p1">Liv is twisting her ring round her finger, over and over again, as if trying to distract herself from what she’s saying. “So he went through a lot of guys very quickly. And the worst thing was... Chas and all that lot were encouraging it. They thought it was great that he was getting over you, but they couldn’t see what he was really like. How he looked when the guy inevitably did something or said something wrong, and Aaron chucked them out. It was like... I don’t know.”</p><p class="p1">Robert does though. It’s not the same, nowhere close to what he’d done in the past, but it’s still recognisable. <em>He was hurting himself</em>, Robert thinks, and it twists like a knife in his gut. </p><p class="p1">“Anyway, it got to the point where no one could keep up with who he was with and who had been given the boot. Eventually even Chas realised something was up. We sat him down, the whole family, and told him we were worried about him.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m sure that went down a treat,” Robert mutters, and Liv’s mouth ticks up just a little at the corner. </p><p class="p1">“He basically told us where to go,” she agrees. “Said there was nothing wrong with him and that he was just having some fun. Which would’ve been fine, only he kept choosing arseholes to bring home. I swear he was deliberately picking the worst blokes imaginable.”</p><p class="p1">“There must’ve been one that was half decent?” Robert asks, but secretly hoping she says no. </p><p class="p1">“Not until Niall. None of us could believe it when Aaron stopped going out every night, and then when he brought Niall into the pub to meet everyone... we thought he’d finally turned a corner.”</p><p class="p1">“When was this?” Robert can’t help but ask. He doesn’t want to know. No part of him is ready to hear the romantic love story of his husband and another man falling in love. Maybe it’s a form of self-harm for him too - blocking out one pain with another. </p><p class="p1">Liv considers this for a moment. “It would’ve been a few years ago. I mean, we still didn’t think it would last. This is Aaron - it usually only took him a week or two before he got bored and ditched them. But as time went on, we wondered if it might be real. And then of course Niall moved in.”</p><p class="p1">Robert is far too aware of his breathing. He tells himself not to think about it too much, but naturally that has the opposite effect. Every part of his body tunes into his lungs as if they’re the only organ still working. <em>In. Out. In. Out.</em> Only it’s not as simple as that anymore. Instead everything goes a bit manic, and suddenly his most basic of instincts deserts him. He tries to take a breath but it's too shallow and he can’t hold it at all, and when it leaves him it sounds more like a wheeze. <em>When did this become so hard?</em></p><p class="p1">”I think the thing with Niall was… he made Aaron relax, you know?" Liv continues, utterly oblivious to Robert's mild panic attack. "He was really laid back, nothing ever phased him. And that was good because it forced Aaron to let go a bit. He’d been so tense, for <em>years</em>, but he actually started to smile properly again. And he laughed, too. I’d actually forgotten what his laugh sounded like.”</p><p class="p1">His face remains a careful mask of neutrality, and he’s got his hands splayed flat across his thighs so there’s no hint of them shaking. Unless she focused on his chest, which is rising and falling rapidly, she would never be able to tell that any strength or resolve he once possessed is crumbling inside him like rocks off a cliff face.</p><p class="p1">“I should have known not to trust it. We let our guard down, we stopped paying attention to what was going on.”</p><p class="p1">“What <em>was</em> going on?” Fear overtakes heartbreak for a moment, and he prays, no matter how much he hates this bloke, that he isn’t about to become the villain of this story.</p><p class="p1">Liv shakes her head, somber. “I thought they were solid. A proper couple. But it turns out Aaron had kept loads from him.”</p><p class="p1">It shouldn’t needle him, but still he feels the words bubbling up his throat. “He doesn’t need to tell anyone anything about his life, Liv.” It’s instinctive, coming to his defence, and it’s both a relief and a worry that he’s so quick to react, even after all this time.</p><p class="p1">Liv gives him a look that says <em>‘I know that’.</em> “He’d lied, too, though. He told Niall his scars were from when he was a teenager, that it was all in the past. That he hadn’t hurt himself since.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh.” That, Robert has to admit, is not good.</p><p class="p1">“And Niall thought Gordon died when Aaron was a kid. Which I didn’t realise until Niall was chatting to me just before Christmas about his family, and how much he loved going home to see his dad, and then he apologised. He said: ‘It must be so difficult that you never really got to know your dad properly’.”</p><p class="p1">Robert winces. He can’t even imagine what that conversation must have felt like for Liv.</p><p class="p1">“I was so confused, I didn’t even realise that Aaron had lied, so I ended up saying more than I should have and Niall was angry about it. Or… not <em>angry</em>. He was hurt. Him and Aaron had a massive fight that night and Aaron took it out on me. Said I should have kept my nose out.”</p><p class="p1">“That wasn’t fair of him.”</p><p class="p1">Liv shrugs. “He felt guilty, I think. And maybe embarrassed. Anyway, it wasn’t like we were on great terms. Eventually him and Niall patched things up, a bit. But then February came round.”</p><p class="p1">She says it as though it’s significant, and it takes Robert a moment to realise why.</p><p class="p1">“Valentine’s day.”</p><p class="p1">“Aaron forgot, even though Niall had put it in the calendar and even written a note on the fridge. He’d planned this nice meal at home, got me out of the house for the night, set everything up so it’d be special. Aaron took a scrap job instead, didn’t get home till gone ten.”</p><p class="p1">“Right.”</p><p class="p1">“Course I didn’t know any of this until the next morning when I came back, thinking they’d still be asleep. But Niall was in the kitchen and he told me everything. We just… talked. About how careless Aaron can be. How he keeps everyone at arm’s length. How much of a dick he can be when he really sets his mind to it.”</p><p class="p1">Robert’s lips flatten into a disapproving line. “Liv…”</p><p class="p1">“I know!” she says, too loudly, bristling. “I know I should have just kept my mouth shut. But he’d been really horrible to me and I honestly felt so bad for Niall. He’d put so much effort into it and Aaron had just… <em>forgot</em>.”</p><p class="p1">Robert’s mind unhelpfully returns him to a Valentine’s day in which the two had shared a meal despite not being a couple. They had been on a precipice back then, teetering at the edge, and that day had started the inevitable fall. The one that changed his life for the better. If only for a little while...</p><p class="p1">He clears his throat, chest tight and sore. “So how did that lead to you not having a home?”</p><p class="p1">“Aaron was on the landing. Listened to the whole thing,” she explains, and just like that the final piece falls into place. “When he came down, he had a face like thunder and he told Niall to get out. Just pack his things and leave. And then he turned to me and told me to do the same.”</p><p class="p1">He can imagine the scene like a tableaux before him. Niall, faceless as he is in Robert’s mind, and Liv standing horrified as they are screamed at by her brother.</p><p class="p1">Liv has withdrawn a little as she’s explained, and now she wraps her arms around her middle as if to protect herself from the memory of it.</p><p class="p1">“I knew he meant it. I could see on his face how angry he was. So I went upstairs, grabbed anything I could see and shoved it in a bag. He didn’t even look at me when I came back down. Niall had already gone. I heard the door slam. I thought maybe if I tried to apologise…” He can hear the tears in her throat and moves without thinking to grasp her hand. She lets out one fragile sob and then shrinks into herself again.</p><p class="p1">“He turned on me. It was so… I’ve never seen him like that. He said–” She stops abruptly, mouth clamped shut as if trying to hold back the deluge of abuse by sheer force of will alone. He waits, nervous, pressing his fingertips into his knees.</p><p class="p1">Eventually she takes a breath and gives a sad shake of her head. “He said some things. Things he can’t take back. And I left because I couldn’t stay, and because he didn’t want me there.”</p><p class="p1">She looks broken, even though she hasn’t told him all of it. He won’t push her though. She’s been through enough, and part of him doesn’t want to hear anymore. Instead he comes to sit on the sofa and pats the cushion next to him. She goes, slumping into his side the way she used to when she was a kid and feeling deflated or upset. He hooks an arm around her shoulders and squeezes tightly.</p><p class="p1">It’s a relief. Having her close, knowing she accepts his comfort. He half expected her to pull away, shake him off, and it’s a mixture of pain and elation to find she still wants him. Like this. Like someone she can trust.</p><p class="p1">They sit for a minute or two, quietly mulling over the conversation, both reeling. She is small and warm against him, her hair tickling his throat. When she rubs her eyes he feels able to ease his arm gently from around her.</p><p class="p1">She gives a breathless, awkward laugh. “Sorry.”</p><p class="p1">“No,” he responds immediately, because there’s no need. She has nothing to apologise for.</p><p class="p1">Still she looks embarrassed. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes downcast and a little raw. He wants to gather her back into his arms, tell her that he will smooth out her worries and right all her wrongs. But those are promises he knows already he cannot keep. They would require a level of interference from him that he is neither willing or able to do, for a variety of reasons.</p><p class="p1">It makes him feel wholly inadequate though, and not for the first time. He missed so much of her life, and although he knows that his leaving probably didn’t have the same impact on her that a real brother’s absence would, he can see that it has had <em>some </em>effect. She missed him. For all their arguments and bickering, for all the misunderstandings and resentment and even – though he hates to admit it – the jealousy, she still cared. And when he wrote to her, a bittersweet plea sent on a wave of nostalgia and regret, she answered. She came.</p><p class="p1">How can he ever repay her for that?</p><p class="p1">“Have you got much planned for today?” The question is sudden, and likely meant as a distraction to them both. It’s clear she has no intention of continuing their previous conversation.</p><p class="p1">He shakes his head automatically, then remembers the texts from earlier that morning. “Uh… I have a meeting. Probation officer. Later today.” The words come stilted, and he can’t meet her eye though he’s not sure why. It’s not as though Liv is under any allusion as to where he’s been the past eight years. She picked him up from the prison, for Christ’s sake.</p><p class="p1">“Oh. That’s… good,” she tries, but the final word tips up in a half-question. He offers a soft smile that means: <em>Don’t worry.</em></p><p class="p1">“Yeah. She’s just checking in, that’s all.”</p><p class="p1">It’s what he hopes at least, but it’s not as though he’s done this before. Maybe he’s about to get slapped with an ASBO.</p><p class="p1">Liv nods, contemplative. Then all of a sudden she stands, hands on her hips. “Well, if you’re meeting her then you need to look smart.”</p><p class="p1">She doesn’t wait for a response, instead marching back down the hall towards her bedroom. He stays sitting, unsure what the Hell is going on, and doesn’t get up until he hears her return a few moments later, fully dressed.</p><p class="p1">“Come on. I’m taking you shopping.” She says it matter-of-factly, brooking no argument, and so he goes, pulling on his shoes and allowing himself to be herded out the door.</p><p class="p2">________</p><p class="p1">He feels exposed.</p><p class="p1">Despite sitting under the shelter of the cricket pavilion, he is aware that anyone might chance upon him even up here. And then what? He has no answer. He just prays it doesn’t happen.</p><p class="p1">There’s lichen growing across the bench and he picks at it with his fingernails, brushing it onto the worn, scuffed deck. Some of the silvery flecks cling to his new navy, polyester suit and he slowly, carefully peels each off in turn. He feels uncomfortable. Nervous. His mouth has gone unbearably dry and he didn’t think to bring anything to drink. Instead he swallows, over and over, and all the while panicking that the first words out of his mouth will end up being a croak.</p><p class="p1">He glances again at his watch and huffs. Ten minutes late now. Wendy never was good at time-keeping. She always entered a room late, looking flustered and a bit bedraggled. He’d never had much faith in her truth be told, but given she had been one of his only forms of social contact inside, he still feels a strange sense of closeness to her.</p><p class="p1"><em>Beggars can’t be choosers</em>, he thinks. The phrase hits a little too close to the bone for his liking.</p><p class="p1">Something flashes in the distance and he startles, until he recognises the familiar shade of lilac that is Wendy’s signature colour, and relaxes a fraction. He smoothes down his lapels and stands, frowning when he realises his trousers have already creased from sitting.</p><p class="p1"><em>I had tailored suits once</em>. It’s not a helpful reminder, and besides, Liv bought him the best one she could afford. He needs to be more bloody grateful.</p><p class="p1">Wendy offers a frantic wave as if he can’t already see her, bobbing up slowly as she ascends the hill. He can hear her laboured breathing already and goes to meet her so she can stop rushing.</p><p class="p1">“Christ, why didn’t you pick a more central spot!” she exclaims by way of greeting, and then barks a laugh to show she’s only teasing. Robert still tenses. He has no intention of telling her why he chose not to suggest the cafe… or God forbid the pub.</p><p class="p1">“Thought we’d get more privacy here,” he says instead, already going back to sit on the bench. She doesn’t question it, though he knows her well enough by now to know she’ll have squirrelled that statement away to use on him later. Scatter-brained she may be, but forgetful she is most certainly not.</p><p class="p1">She sits heavily beside him, blowing out a breath and pulling her tired leather satchel from her shoulder and dropping it by her feet. When she smiles at him, her whole face bunches up in folds like a Shar Pei. He finds himself grinning back, despite himself.</p><p class="p1">“It’s good to see you. Out and about, I mean.”</p><p class="p1"><em>Out of prison</em>, he translates, and nods. “It’s nice.”</p><p class="p1">“Adjusting?” It’s a fairly loaded question and he decides not to begin their conversation straight away by lying.</p><p class="p1">“Slowly,” he concedes, then adds: “I’m building bridges.”</p><p class="p1">She makes an ‘ah’ sound which is neither positive or negative, then looks at him expectantly. He’d forgotten she did this, waiting for him to initiate the conversation instead of just telling him what she wanted. Usually he would relish it – he remembers that the best business meetings were the ones where he got to do all the talking and the client just listened, and preferably agreed to everything at the end. Somehow it doesn’t feel like he’s in control though with Wendy, as if she’s still firmly got the reins.</p><p class="p1">“I’ve moved some stuff into the flat,” he says eventually, because the silence is intolerable and he’s not sure what else he can talk about. He certainly won’t mention Liv, he knows that much. Even if Wendy pries, he won’t bring her into this world.</p><p class="p1">“That’s good. How are you finding it?”</p><p class="p1"><em>Shit</em>, he wants to say, but he knows she moved heaven and earth to find him that place and it seems wrong to throw it back at her.</p><p class="p1">“It’s cosy,” he tries instead, borrowing the description Liv used when she first laid eyes on it. Wendy smiles knowingly.</p><p class="p1">“Not what you’re used to, I know.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m used to a prison cell,” he corrects, slightly morosely. “Anything’s better than that.”</p><p class="p1">She hums her agreement, then bends with effort and fishes for some documents from her bag. She rests them on her lap and he can’t help but stare at them, trying hard to read the tiny, inked writing.</p><p class="p1">“Couple of things to sign. Nothing to worry about, just a confirmation of address and an agreement to regular check-ins with me.”</p><p class="p1">She passes them over and he skim reads them each in turn. He takes the pen she offers and scrawls his name on the dotted line.</p><p class="p1">“Good.” She shuffles them, pats them straight, and slides them back into the satchel. There’s still one left though.</p><p class="p1">“There’s actually another reason I wanted us to meet so soon. In person.”</p><p class="p1">He waits. He won’t give her the satisfaction of talking this time. If she wants to tell him what’s going on, she’ll have to do it herself with no prompting from him.</p><p class="p1">She gives him a few beats of silence, but eventually decides to just spit it out. “Because of the seriousness of your crime, and the… complications surrounding the incident itself–”</p><p class="p1">“You mean the fact I killed the man who raped my sister?” he says bluntly. He’s had eight years to think about it – he doesn’t see any point in dancing round the issue.</p><p class="p1">She blanches a little, but rallies quicker than he expected. “That. Exactly. Well, the parole board were keen to put an extra stipulation in place.”</p><p class="p1"><em>Here we go. </em>Turns out the ASBO wasn’t such a joke after all.</p><p class="p1">She deliberates for a moment but then passes him over the final document. He takes it, expecting to see something about electronic tagging or a curfew before 10pm. Instead his eyes focus in on one word in particular, and certainly not one he had been anticipating.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Counselling?”</em>
</p><p class="p1">She keeps her face neutral. “The board thinks it’s necessary for you to receive some support. I’ll say now that it’s not something most ex-offenders receive–”</p><p class="p1">“Then give it someone else!” he argues.</p><p class="p1">She levels him with a warning look that is oddly effective. He wonders how many times she has had to do something similar with other criminals.</p><p class="p1">“Robert, this isn’t up for negotiation. It’s a condition of your parole. Failure to meet this will result in you being back in court. They could send you to prison again.”</p><p class="p1">And as much as he wants to call her bluff, he can see that she’s telling him the truth. He can’t fight it, and if he tries they’ll slap him in handcuffs and have him back behinds bars before teatime. Even the thought makes his stomach somersault.</p><p class="p1">He glances back down at the file, reading over the requirements. One session a week for ‘an indefinite period of time’.</p><p class="p1">“I’m seeing a criminal psychologist?” he asks, slightly affronted. He knows that, technically speaking, he did commit murder, but it’s not as though he didn’t have a reason. He didn’t just go out and bludgeon any old random person. Frankly, they should have given him a medal for a job well done. </p><p class="p1"><em>Thinking like that is probably why she wants you in counselling</em>, his brains tells him and all he can do is scowl.</p><p class="p1">Wendy shakes her head, halting his thoughts in their tracks before they can run away too quickly. “It just means she specialises in ex-offenders. The sessions don’t have to discuss your time inside, or why you were there in the first place. It really is just a way to support your transition back into normal life.”</p><p class="p1">She sounds like she’s reading from a probation officer handbook and he bristles a little. He can transition just fine on his own. He doesn’t need the help of a stranger, and especially not one who is going to be analysing his every word and move. He can’t imagine anything worse.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t want to sound callous, Robert, but you don’t have much of a choice but to go.”</p><p class="p1">He feels as though he’s at the edge of a cliff, and despite his valid concerns, he’s still being ushered over into thin air. There should be something he can do to stop it, some way of twisting things or finding a loophole, but none presents itself and he can feel Wendy’s eyes on him.</p><p class="p1">And so he flips to the final page and, begrudgingly, signs his name. Her sigh of relief only serves to make him more livid.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t give me that look. You will thank me for this,” she says, then on reflection: “And even if you don’t, it’s still a good thing. You might find you actually get something out of it.”</p><p class="p1">He doubts that very much, but he holds his tongue. Just.</p><p class="p1">She slaps her hands on her thighs, a sign that she’s ready to bid him goodbye, and stands. “Right. Time to be off. I’ve got a caseload and a half today so I need to be back in Leeds already. But I’ll send you all the information for your first session soon. And if you need anything, just call.”</p><p class="p1">He nods, though they both know he won't. He'd rather chew his own arm off. She doesn’t say anymore, just offers a wave, and then she’s dashing back across the green and down the hill. He watches her go until she becomes a faint lilac smudge in the distance, then lets his shoulders drop.</p><p class="p1"><em>Counselling, </em>he thinks, rubbing hard at his temples to ease the headache fast coming on.</p><p class="p1">“Fuck."</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You know, I was going to say that I really love this chapter, but considering what happened in the comments section the last time I said I loved a chapter... </p><p>No, I really DO love this chapter a lot. It's the one I've been so excited to write and I think it's one you will have been anticipating as well 👀 Hopefully it lives up to expectations, even if the ending is cruel beyond words. I would apologise but I'm really not that sorry!</p><p>Enjoy 😉 xxx</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s often thought that the universe has a rather vindictive sense of humour. There are several examples which he could use to prove this theory correct, but he’s not sure any are as fitting as attending a counselling session on his birthday.</p><p>As gifts go, he can’t imagine any being worse than this.</p><p>Robert glances at her again and finds that she’s still watching him, placid smile concealing a shrewd, analytical mind that he’s certain is picking him apart like a vulture over a carcass. He’s said nothing beyond his own name and a non-verbal confirmation that he is, indeed, fine. Infuriatingly, she’s barely said anymore than bland pleasantries back. Isn’t she supposed to ask seemingly normal questions which, below the surface, uncover his deepest secrets?</p><p>Her mouth, dark and full, twists into an almost-smirk and he squirms a little in his seat. He knew he would hate this. He just didn’t realise quite how much.</p><p>“Aren’t we supposed to… discuss things?” he ends up asking, and knows instantly that victory is well and truly hers. <em>Damn</em>.</p><p>Asha carefully folds her hands on her knee and looks at him, unfazed. “Is there something you would like to discuss with me?” she asks, and somehow even this feels like a test. Part of him, defiant and resentful, wants to suggest exploring the moment he bludgeoned a man’s head in. But secretly the idea of talking about it, about saying the words aloud even to a stranger, makes him feel a little queasy.</p><p>That being said, he has no idea what else to offer up. Certainly nothing he has any intention of laying at her feet to be dissected. And what good would it do anyway? It’s not as though he’s not aware of the wrong he’s done.</p><p>“I thought you’d have a checklist? Things we needed to tick off.”</p><p>Her eyebrow quirks for a moment as if surprised by this assumption, and he feels suddenly embarrassed, ignorant.</p><p>“What is it you think would be on such a list?” Her voice is curious and encouraging. There’s no trace of judgement in her tone, and yet still he feels it. Senses her prejudice even if he can see nothing of it in her expression.</p><p>He shrugs, just a sharp jerk of his shoulders. “Prison,” is his only response, and it feels like a defeat to even say the word. The taste of it, dirty and acrid, remains on his tongue.</p><p>“And would you like to discuss your time in prison?”</p><p>“Would anyone want to talk about that?” he snaps. He hadn’t meant to. In fact, while waiting in the reception area with its mid-century furniture and overly-friendly receptionist, he had specifically told himself <em>not </em>to snap. That no matter what she did or said to him, he was categorically not to show anger.</p><p>
  <em>Did well there, then.</em>
</p><p>Asha sits a little straighter in her seat. “Robert, though you may wish to avoid it, the focus of this session as well as every one hereafter is solely on you. What other people may wish to talk about is not my concern.” She levels him with a look which is part-sympathy, part-exasperation. Oddly, it reminds him of his mother.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>She waves a hand dismissively. “No apology is necessary. I can see you are deeply uncomfortable being here, and I have no intention of forcing you into conversation. If you want this first session to be us sitting quietly, that is exactly what we will do.”</p><p>This brings him up short. “Really?”</p><p>“Do you think I am lying?”</p><p>“No,” he says, though it’s not entirely true. “It just… wouldn’t it be a waste of a session?”</p><p>She regards him for a moment, dark eyes carefully considering her next words. “Not if it means that the next time you come to see me you feel more settled.”</p><p>“Oh.” He’s not sure what else to say. This entire conversation has gone in the exact opposite direction to the way he had been expecting. He feels blindsided.</p><p>“You seem perplexed,” she comments, and he glances up to find she looks amused.</p><p>“I didn’t think this is how it was going to go.”</p><p>“What did you imagine I would do to you? I can promise I have no torture equipment hidden in drawers. You are perfectly safe in this room.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes but he can feel himself smiling already. “I wasn’t imagining a pair of pliers.”</p><p>“No?” she asks, feigning amazement.</p><p>“No,” he replies, and then feels the remainder of his answer being tugged from his throat as if Asha were a magician pulling out some brightly coloured fabric. “I just thought the parole board would be trying to make sure I was… safe. For others, I mean. For me to be around others.”</p><p>He’s said too much. Said more than he’s even really said to himself. It’s not as if he’s been worrying about being near people. So what if he killed someone? It’s not as though he didn’t have cause.</p><p>
  <em>And what about Katie?</em>
</p><p>His mind swerves from the question as it always does. This isn’t about Katie. He’s not here to talk about her.</p><p>Asha is looking at him, a question in her eyes, but instead she says: “I have had no guidance from them, nor would I listen to it even if they did. These sessions are for you and only for you. There is no list, no spreadsheet. I will not be scoring you out of ten.”</p><p>Something switches in his brain, like a gear changing, and he feels a spark of his old self reignite when he asks cheekily: “But if you did?”</p><p>“Oh, you are barely above a one right now,” she quips, and his eyes widen until he realises she’s deliberately teasing him.</p><p>“Well, cheers. That makes me feel much better.”</p><p>“Very glad I could help,” she deadpans. “There is one question I would quite like to ask, if you felt able?”</p><p>He doesn’t. Frankly, he feels as though he’s run ten miles in the last few minutes. But considering these sessions are supposed to be about him opening up, he doesn’t see that he has much of a choice but to agree.</p><p>“Depends on the question?” he says, because no matter what else he is, he’s still stubborn as a mule.</p><p>She smirks, as if she expected such a vague response, but sobers enough to ask seriously: “How does it feel being free again?”</p><p>It knocks him, destabilising the previously light-hearted tone between them. Of all the questions she might have asked, he’d never anticipated this one. And he has no idea how to answer it.</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“Why don’t you know?” she comes back immediately and he grouses, feeling backed into a corner.</p><p>“I just… don’t.” He slides his palms across his thighs, head ducked as if to hide himself from her focused gaze. “It’s not like anyone rolled out the red carpet when I got out.”</p><p>He hears the pen carving out a few rushed sentences and then: “No?”</p><p>“No. I mean my–” He cuts himself off abruptly before he mentions Liv. Asha waits, quiet. “Someone did come to pick me up.”</p><p>“Family?” It’s not insistent or assumptive, and he wonders again what she’s already been told. Does she know, for example, that in his eight years in prison, he had the fewest visitors of any inmate? Is she aware that he broke contact with the people he loved most, and only allowed his remaining relatives to see him once a month at most? Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. Either way she’s looking at him now with a hesitant expression, and he realises he’s been silent for longer than he meant.</p><p>“Sort of. It’s complicated,” he answers, voice rough around the edges.</p><p>“It usually is,” Asha concedes, making another note. She’s filled almost a page since they began. “I have no intention of putting words into your mouth, but it can often be quite a lonely time. Many former inmates assume that being released will come with it a sense of triumph. But often the opposite can be true. I was curious to hear your opinion, if you have any?”</p><p>“I…” He stops, blinded by memories of his hauntingly quiet flat, and of the depressing carrier bag that held his entire life. “It was a bit of a shock. You get used to being in prison.”</p><p>She hums her agreement. “Of course. Humans have remarkable capabilities for adapting to their surroundings. Long-term inmates develop a sense of routine inside.”</p><p>“Yeah. There’s a structure to the day, you always know what you’re doing.”</p><p>Another scribbled note, another question. “Was that a comfort?”</p><p>It feels like another test, though he has no clue what the right answer would be. In the end he chooses to be honest. “I suppose. It kept you busy - there were courses you could take during the day, and rehabilitation sessions. It was a bit like school.” He grimaces as he says it, hating how utterly ridiculous that comparison sounds even to his own ears.</p><p>“No, no. I’ve heard it referred to as such before,” Asha interjects gently, leaning forward in her seat. "There’s a timetable that you follow. You’re mixing with the same people every day. There is almost a sense of community within prison.”</p><p>“Except in school you know you get to go home at the end of the day.” It comes out bitter and biting, and he presses his lips together to stop himself from saying more, from slipping further.</p><p>“Yes. Home is something most people cling to inside, and it is their main focus on being released. From the information I have, you don’t seem to be back living in your hometown… Emmerdale, is it?”</p><p><em>So she knows some things then. </em>He twists in his chair, looking at her side-on and running his tongue along his teeth. “I’m not, no.”</p><p>His mind skitters immediately to Liv and to the flat she’s welcomed him into despite everything. And then he thinks of his midnight trip to Mill Cottage with its aching familiarity. Neither of them are his home, but nor is the address Asha has him registered living at.</p><p>He doesn’t really belong anywhere.</p><p>“Robert, if this is not an area you wish to explore then tell me. This session is controlled and guided by you and your needs. If you don’t wish to discuss–”</p><p>“I don’t.” It comes out on a breath, no power behind it. He feels weak, shaken. Suddenly the door in the corner seems far more inviting.</p><p>“All right, then. We will table the discussion about home for the moment. If you are receptive, I would like to revisit the earlier point you made about having a routine in prison?”</p><p>He trains his eyes on the window which faces out onto the car park and gives one, curt nod of agreement.</p><p>“You know, I often liken an inmate being released from prison to an adolescent finally experiencing adulthood for the first time.”</p><p>And just like that, she hooks him again. He turns to her, brows furrowed. Asha simply grins. “I know, it’s a strange analogy but allow me to explain. Just as a teenager is desperate to be treated as an adult, so too does an inmate long for their first taste of freedom. Indeed, it becomes almost an obsession. They build it up in their mind, this perfect fantasy in which everything is glorious.”</p><p>Robert can already see where she’s going, and oddly understands the metaphor more than he’d readily admit.</p><p>“But naturally, all teenagers realise that actually adulthood is not nearly as exciting as they hoped it would be. They leave home and are suddenly met with an overwhelming level of responsibility, the likes of which they are not equipped to deal with. The same is true for a prisoner. They think they will simply slot back into the life they had before, and once released they find that nothing is as they imagined it to be. It can be very disconcerting… and disappointing.”</p><p>The final word snags on his consciousness, refusing to be let go. “You’re asking me if I was disappointed when I got out?”</p><p>She rubs her thumb against the side of the pen. “I’m merely letting you know that no matter how you feel right now, it is perfectly normal if the elation you expected has turned into something more akin to <em>de</em>flation.”</p><p>There’s nothing aggressive about what she’s said, nothing harsh detected in her tone. And yet Robert’s body reacts as if she’s shouted at him, recoiling from her words, a denial already weighing down his tongue.</p><p>“It’s fine.”</p><p>“What is?”</p><p>He gestures to the window. “Being out. Free. It’s… it’s all fine.”</p><p>“Then I’m glad you had a more positive experience.” She manages to keep the doubt from her words, but he knows instinctually that she feels it. Neither of them are convinced by what he’s said.</p><p>“Can I ask you one final question, Robert?”</p><p>“Yes,” he responds wearily, if only to get the session over with so he can leave. Her words keep revolving inside his head, and he hates how much he agrees with them.</p><p>“What is it you would ultimately like to get out of these sessions?”</p><p>He looks up, slightly stunned. “What?”</p><p>“I know, of course, that you did not ask for counselling, but nevertheless you are here. So what is it you would like to have achieved by the end?”</p><p>He grapples for an answer, <em>any </em>answer, but comes away empty-handed. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“You can take a moment to consider. This is not a trick question – I’m interested purely because our future sessions can be tailored towards your desired outcome.”</p><p>She sits back in her seat as if to show him that she’s willing to wait indefinitely for his response. Oddly it has the opposite effect to the one he imagines she’s hoping for – rather than relaxing him, instead his muscles tighten to an almost painful degree.</p><p><em>Go on. What </em>do<em> you want? What do you honestly think she’ll be able to do for you?</em></p><p>Truthfully, he’s not sure if anything can be done. He’s a lost cause, and these sessions are nothing more than a tick-box exercise to prove he’s safe enough to be back in society. But he can hardly say that to her.</p><p>“I suppose… just to be… happier?” It sounds pathetic. <em>He </em>sounds pathetic. His hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, and he knows immediately that she’s analysing his reaction with some interest.</p><p>“You don’t seem sure.”</p><p>He can’t look at her anymore, and that restless energy he walked in with has returned with a vengeance. “I don’t know if that’s possible,” he admits, and hates himself more for saying it aloud. <em>Christ, just stop talking.</em></p><p>“It’s an admirable goal,” Asha replies kindly, "and one all of us, consciously or otherwise, are striving towards. The difficulty is understanding <em>what </em>or <em>who </em>might facilitate that happiness.”</p><p>“I don’t know that either.”</p><p>“Then that is something for us to explore in the next session.” The words, thankfully, sound final, and when he looks up she has placed her notebook and pen on the table beside her. “We’ll stick to the same day and time if that suits?”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s fine.” He’s so relieved for it to be over that he doesn’t care about the fact he’s agreeing to another session.</p><p>“Excellent. I will see you next week, then. It was good to meet you, Robert.” She offers her hand and he takes it, shaking it hurriedly.</p><p>“Yeah. You, too.”</p><p>He steps back out into the reception area without another word, brain not fully functioning yet, and rushes through making his next appointment with the receptionist so he can push open the main door and step outside into the sunshine. It glares brightly down onto the tarmac and he lets his eyes shut, breathing in lungfuls of fresh air and ignoring Asha’s persistent voice still going round and round in his head. He’s still trying when he hears a car engine and opens his eyes to find Gabby pulling up by the curb.</p><p>“Getting in, then?” she asks impatiently, and he goes without answering.</p><p>“Liv’s shopping,” she explains as he squeezes himself into the tiny Fiat. He glances at her questioningly and she simply shrugs. “An emergency,” is all the explanation she offers, and frankly he’s too knackered to quibble it.</p><p>Gabby blasts the radio for most of the journey home. He can’t decide if this is her usual routine or if she’s attempting to mask the apparent silence between them. They have nothing to say to each other - he barely knows her. The fact that he is, <em>technically</em>, her uncle makes the whole situation all the stranger.</p><p>Without conversation to distract him, he has no choice but to replay the session in his head. Asha’s comments about prison not been wholly bad, and freedom not being wholly good continue to weigh heavily on his shoulders. It’s an uncomfortable truth which he hates agreeing with, but nevertheless he finds himself examining his own reactions both inside and out.</p><p>It wasn’t that prison wasn’t Hell. It was. The solitude and isolation had crippled him, and the single visit from Vic or Diane each month had done little to quell his loneliness. Add to that the fact he was in a Category A block which consisted of violent thugs and genuine psychopaths, and it wasn’t hard to see why he had been so desperate to leave.</p><p>But there had been strange moments of comfort inside. The long quiet stretches reading in his cell, or the menial but reassuring conveyor belt of work and education which had kept his brain from melting. Even the timed meals had been oddly welcome. The routine of it all had prevented his anxieties from reaching uncontrollable heights, and had left him with little time to contemplate the years ahead.</p><p>Asha hadn’t been wrong about obsessing over his freedom either. Every prisoner did. When he was eventually re-evaluated as a lower risk prisoner, his newly appointed cellmate – a twenty-something armed robber called Dylan – had talked all day, every day about getting out and seeing his two baby girls.</p><p>Robert had never voiced his own hopes to Dylan or anyone else, but the pictures on his wall and the mementos of his life before were proof enough that, at one time, he had <em>someone</em>. And even though he never acknowledged it, or participated in the conversations about family and loved ones which were regular in the canteen, he silently fantasised about the day of his release, and the return to his home.</p><p><em>Not exactly what I pictured</em>, he thinks, glancing again at Gabby who is drumming her fingers against the steering wheel as an upbeat song blares from the speakers.</p><p>The stone cottages rise up in the distance, signalling Emmerdale is close, and Gabby prods a finger to cut the radio off. He knows, even before she speaks, that she has something important to say.</p><p>“I’m going to warn you now, because Liv’s gone a bit mental with all the planning… she’s organising a surprise birthday for you.” She sounds unimpressed and possibly disapproving. Dread sinks heavily like a stone inside him.</p><p>God knows he can’t remember the last time he celebrated his birthday, but the thought of Liv and Gabby and him sat round a table with party hats and streamers turns his insides to lead. He had hoped he’d be able to ignore the day completely. Apart from anything else, what does he truly have to celebrate?</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“Just…” Gabby pauses, changing gears so she can glide the car round the corner and into the new development. “Just pretend to be happy, okay? She’s trying to make it as special as she can for you.”</p><p>He nods, adding guilt to the long list of emotions he’s currently cycling through at a rate of knots. It’s a relief when she stops the car and he can step out into fresh air. It’s clammy for April and he runs a finger under the collar of his too-loose shirt to wipe some of the sweat from his skin. Gabby goes ahead of him and he follows slowly, knowing that once he’s inside he’ll need to plaster on a grateful smile.</p><p>He wants to feel moved by Liv’s efforts, endeared by her determination to normalise his presence. But it’s overshadowed by the knowledge that she’s overcompensating for the eight birthdays he spent languishing in a cell. And the worst part is – he doesn’t <em>need </em>her to make up for lost time. He stopped contact, not her. If anyone should be trying to make amends it’s him.</p><p>The flat is unnervingly quiet when he enters and he shuffles cautiously down the hallway like a soldier waiting for the first bullet to fire. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but Gabby’s description of Liv going ‘mental’ doesn’t fill him with confidence.</p><p>But after finding the living-come-kitchen empty and Liv’s room likewise, he realises that she’s not back yet. He has time at least. And he’ll need it if he’s to seem both surprised and elated when she finally returns…</p><p>- - -</p><p>He gives Gabby a worrying side-eye to which she can but shrug.</p><p>Neither of them have said anything, both watching intently as Liv attempts to master the bubbling cauldron of… whatever it is she’s cooking. At the moment, he’s still supposed to be none the wiser that she’s throwing him a surprise birthday. According to her, spending an entire day prepping food and refusing to let anyone into her bedroom is entirely normal behaviour.</p><p>Robert looks at Gabby again. She rolls her eyes, as if to say: <em>Stop being so fucking obvious.</em></p><p>He can’t help it. He’s fascinated and terrified in equal measure at Liv’s complete lack of control in the kitchen. And there is a small, subconscious part of him which is reminded of another time in which he watched someone he loved attempt to cook. That time he had come to the rescue, and he wonders now if history is about to repeat itself.</p><p>“Sure you don’t need any help?” Robert asks tentatively and Gabby beats a hasty retreat, possibly anticipating a row. Liv ignores him for another minute, rushing from one counter to the next, grabbing fistfuls of ingredients and chucking them into the pan. He winces. There’s nothing wrong with throwing caution to the wind when cooking, but this… this is chaos.</p><p>Eventually she looks up, cheeks flushed from the steam.“No.” She sounds nervous, unsure. “But you could go for a shower?”</p><p>He laughs despite himself. “Is that your way of saying I stink?”</p><p>She huffs, stress meaning she can’t decipher his comment as teasing rather than irritated. She turns back to the pot, stirring it ferociously, and mutters: “I didn’t mean it like that.”</p><p>He swallows round the placating words he wishes he could say. He’s not sure why it seems so impossible to just… be around her. Be the brotherly figure he was before. Had this been eight years ago, he would have rushed to her aid and they would have bickered over temperatures and timings. And the worst of it is, he’s certain she’d let them return to that in a heartbeat. The only thing stopping them is him, and he doesn’t even know why he’s putting obstacles in their way. He only knows he’s scared, and unsure, and no longer the person she believes him to be.</p><p>“You don’t…” His throat closes around the rest of the sentence as the timer shrills beside her. She makes a grab for it, jabbing the button to shut it off, then whirls to face him.</p><p>“Did you say something?”</p><p>He shakes his head automatically, already shuffling back out of the kitchen. “No. Nothing.”</p><p>She gives him a beat of silence to check, just in case he wants to say it anyway, but he remains mute. Unsatisfied, she returns to the food, furiously blowing her fringe out of her eyes. He takes her in afresh, as if seeing her for the first time, and marvels again at how grown she is. The spiky, sarcastic teenager has been replaced by a softer, wearier young woman.</p><p><em>You missed it</em>. It twinges behind his ribs. <em>You missed her.</em></p><p>“You don’t need to do this.” He says it without meaning to, and despite the raucous sounds of the stove and the oven, she hears him.</p><p>“I <em>knew</em> Gabby wouldn’t keep it to herself,” she says quietly, and her eyes are apologetic. “I just… wanted to do something for you. It’s your first birthday… in a while.”</p><p>He stands very still, mainly because he knows one wrong move, one misplaced word might bring down the house of cards he has carefully constructed in the last few seconds. He needs to get this right.</p><p>“I couldn’t have wished for anymore than this.” It’s not exactly true and they both know it. There’s one very obvious absence to this dream birthday scenario, but it’s still better than anything he would have done himself. And the fact she did it for him, willingly… He doesn’t know how he got so lucky.</p><p>Liv smiles, suddenly shy, small hands tucked into her apron pockets. “Go on,” she says finally, already turning back to the hob. “Go have a shower and put on a nice shirt. I’ve got a disposable camera and I want to use up the whole reel tonight.”</p><p>He doesn’t argue, instead retreating back down the hall and grabbing his slightly crumpled court-appearance shirt to hang on the bathroom door while he showers.</p><p>The tightness in his chest, present since this morning, has finally eased a bit and he strips out of his clothes, feeling as though he’s shedding his own skin. The water, lukewarm because Liv has somehow used most of the hot water, cleanses the grime and taint of the psychologist’s office just as it did with the prison. He scrubs at his arms, his torso, and tilts his face underneath the spray. Vaguely he hears a repetitive thudding somewhere in the flat and wonders what Liv is preparing in the kitchen now.</p><p>He chooses not to think too long on it. Whatever she makes him, he’ll eat it and tell her it’s the best he’s ever tasted. And it’ll be true, in its own way, because she made it just for him.</p><p>It’s enough to make him smile, a broken and lopsided little thing but bright all the same. It makes his cheeks ache, distracts him from the tedium of rinsing the shampoo from his hair and soaping under his arms. It even manages to last through a near-death experience with one of the three-hundred bottles cluttering the shower floor which almost sends him crashing into the glass screen.</p><p>He’s still half-chuckling as he opens the bathrooms door, elbow throbbing from where he’d cracked it off the tiles. His shirt is only half-buttoned and his feet slap wetly on the hallway floor as he steps out into the hallway. He can't see a bloody thing, desperately rubbing at his stinging eyes where the shampoo has inevitably trickled in. He pads carefully, one hand on the wall, and gives his eyes a final rub just as he calls out: “What is it with women and bottles? I swear to God I almost broke my neck because of–”</p><p><em>Aaron</em>.</p><p>He’s standing at the front door, unblinking, frozen. Only his chest moves, rising and falling more rapidly with each breath. The towel Robert had been drying his hair with slips from his hands and land with a sodden thud. He can’t feel his fingers. He can’t feel anything.</p><p>“Oh, God…”</p><p>It takes him a minute to realise the strangled voice is Liv’s, who has been standing between them all this time though Robert hadn’t registered her until now. His gaze shifts to her horrified face, and by the time he looks back the doorway is empty.</p><p>Aaron is gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>PSA: This chapter doesn't exactly show Aaron at his best and I know there have been some negative comments relating to Aaron already. To try and prevent a repeat in this chapter, I just want to remind everyone that Aaron has not seen or been in contact with Robert for eight years at this point. He's angry, and rightly so, and although we know Robert cut off communication to spare Aaron, he is still justified in feeling betrayed, hurt etc. So if you are someone who doesn't always like Aaron or you happen to have a negative reaction to how he is portrayed in this fic/chapter, maybe keep those feelings to yourself?</p><p>Thank you 💕</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He stays still long enough to claw in one agonising breath and then he’s following blindly.</p><p>The concrete stairs are cold against the soles of his feet and he catches his toe on the bottom step trying to get out the door quickly enough. Aaron’s dark figure is stalking towards one of the far bays where his car is parked. Robert doesn’t hesitate. Ignoring the sharp tarmac underfoot, he runs with an outstretched arm and shouts his name.</p><p>Aaron pauses for just a moment. One millisecond of hesitation, but it’s enough to close some of that aching distance between them.</p><p>“Aaron, wait.”</p><p>It’s a mistake, hooking his fingers into the folds of Aaron’s jacket.He doesn’t register the sharp bodily turn, only the heavy thud at the base of his spine when he's pinned up against the car. It knocks the breath clean from his lungs and he feels his legs give just a little. It doesn’t matter though, because Aaron is almost holding him off the ground.</p><p>In prison, he’d dreamed about blue eyes and a pliant mouth. He’d imagined waking to a familiar face beside him, and a warm breath at his neck, a kiss on his cheek. But those same eyes are blazing with hatred now, and the soft lips he’d craved are set in a rigid line.</p><p>It eats a hole in his chest, and all that guilt and shame and desire he’s been clinging onto are instantly swallowed up by fear. Aaron looks at him, right into the heart of him, and Robert knows. Knows without any words needed. He’s lost.</p><p>“Please–”</p><p>He gets no further. He’s braced for a fist to the jaw, but instead he’s shoved down towards the pavement. He skids, stumbles, goes head first onto the ground but manages to put his hands out just in time. The skin smarts, scraped raw by the rough tarmac. He hisses sharply with the pain but it’s drowned out by a car door slamming shut and the roar of the engine.</p><p>He has no time to get up before Aaron has reversed on a scream. Robert sits with his bloody hands in his lap and just watches as the red lights fade into the darkness, too shaken to feel the full extent of what has just happened.</p><p>He doesn’t even hear the door further down open. It’s only when he feels the warmth of another body standing next to him that he looks up. It’s Gabby, rather than Liv as he anticipated.</p><p>“How is she?” he asks, voice weak and shaking. He doesn’t need to see Gabby’s expression to know the answer.</p><p>“In bits,” is her blunt response, though he’s surprised not to hear more of an accusation in her tone. After all, this is his fault. She sits down on the pavement beside him, legs crossed at the ankle, eyes staring off into the distance. Robert does the same.</p><p>“Do you know why he was here?”</p><p>For a minute Gabby says nothing, and eventually he glances at her to see she’s warring with herself. “I didn’t hear the whole conversation. Aaron wasn’t exactly sober from what I could tell. And he was upset.”</p><p>“With Liv?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “No, I actually think he came to make amends. Apparently he tried to call her earlier but she was so busy cooking she didn’t hear her phone go. So he came round to talk to her, face-to-face.”</p><p>“And saw me.” It sinks in his stomach like a stone, weighted by dread and guilt. He should never have come. He should never have dragged Liv into this. <em>Selfish</em>.</p><p>Gabby hums her agreement. “Did he say anything to you?”</p><p>A flicker of Aaron’s face, hard and impassable, flashes in front of Robert’s eyes and he shakes his head to be free of it. “No.”</p><p>“You can’t blame him.”</p><p>“Did I say I blamed him?” he retorts, more angry with himself than with her.</p><p>Gabby rolls her eyes but doesn’t respond. He’s never met someone so utterly unbothered by him before, and he’s torn between feeling infuriated by her apathy and mildly impressed at her consistency. He knows that despite their familial connection, she’s only tolerating him for Liv’s sake. And now he’s ruined possibly the only chance she had of building bridges with her brother.</p><p>“I should go up and see her.” He says it slowly, the final word ticking up in a half-question, as if looking for guidance. It’s like the ground has turned to sinking sand, and any move he makes is only going to pull him down further, faster.</p><p>Gabby regards him. “Then why don’t you?”</p><p>He twists a little to face her. “How angry is she?”</p><p>“At herself? Absolutely,” Gabby answers, then inclines her head towards him. "At you? Surprisingly not.”</p><p>“What?” It’s not true. It can’t be true. Liv has to know this has nothing to do with her - Aaron would never have left if he hadn’t seen Robert. <em>He </em>is the one to blame, no one else.</p><p>“Go and speak to her,” she says firmly, ignoring his obvious confusion. “I’m her friend so she knows I’ll take her side no matter what. She needs someone closer to this whole mess to tell her it’s not her fault.”</p><p>Hecan’t argue with her logic and so he stands, weakened still by the fleeting encounter with Aaron, and heads back towards the flat. He’s almost at the top stair when he hears heavy, hiccuping sobs through the door. His heartbeat falters, guilt and uncertainty making him hesitate. He might have sat with her not that long ago, attempting to ease her hot, quiet tears, but this time is different. This time he is responsible for her pain.</p><p>He nudges the door open slowly and then stops, taking in her tiny, hunched frame curled up on the hallway floor. Her face is almost entirely obscured by her hair and her hands, and it takes her a second to register his presence. She looks up at him, wide eyes red and sore, and his throat tightens around the apology he desperately wants to say.</p><p>“Liv…” He gets no further before a fresh wave of tears overtakes her and she collapses back into a fit of crying, face buried in her hands. He kneels beside her, hands still stinging, and cradles her gently as she chokes on garbled words. He hates to see her cry. She’s always been such a ferocious little thing, untameable as far as he’d been aware, but seeing her now, vulnerable and distraught, is enough to break him.</p><p>“It’ll be okay,” he says, though it’s meaningless and can’t begin to heal the damage he has done.</p><p>She says something but the words are absorbed by his shoulder where she’s currently hiding her face and he can’t make them out. Instead he smooths a careful hand across the crown of her head and lets the crying subside before he tries again.</p><p>“You did nothing wrong. If anyone’s to blame here, it’s me.”</p><p>He hears her weak dispute against this but he shushes her to drown it out. The last thing he wants is to hear her tell him he’s innocent. The door creaks open behind him and he knows Gabby has rejoined them. He doesn’t turn, too focused on smoothing down Liv’s hair and holding her tightly, as if the sheer force of his support might be enough to keep her together.</p><p><em>You didn’t need to do this</em>, he can’t help but think spitefully. <em>You didn’t have to fuck up her life, too.</em></p><p>“I need to borrow your car.” The words are quiet yet forceful, and it takes him longer than it should to realise he’s the one who’s said them. He turns to see Gabby looking at him, one perfectly shaped eyebrow quirked in a disbelieving question.</p><p>“Please,” he begs, glancing down at Liv’s still shaking body curled tightly against him. “I need to sort this.”</p><p>Gabby takes another moment to deliberate, then fetches her keys from her bag. They swap places, her kneeling down to hold Liv while he unfolds himself to stand upright.</p><p>“Good luck,” she says as she drops them into his waiting hand, though her tone betrays her doubt. He can’t exactly blame her.</p><p>“Thanks,” he says, refusing to look at Liv again and instead pulling on his shoes before heading back outside.</p><p>- - -</p><p>He’s half-expecting to find the driveway empty, but mercifully Aaron’s car is out front, albeit parked diagonally with its bonnet half-buried in the hedge. Either he was too angry or too inebriated to stop before the thicket did it for him.</p><p>The nerves take root as soon as Robert clambers out of Gabby’s car. Adrenaline had carried him from the flat to here, but it deserts him now as soon as the reality of what he’s doing hits home. There’s one single window upstairs glowing faintly amber, and he knows that Aaron will be seething inside. Robert is only partly prepared for the likely assault - verbal or physical - which he’s about to receive, but he has to try. Not for his own sake, but for Liv’s. He owes her that much at least.</p><p>He knocks hard and insistent on the door, refusing to think about the fact that he could once have walked in without question. This isn’t his home anymore, and he has no right to barge in without an invite. It’s not something he’s expecting to get now.</p><p>The house remains silent, and with no shadowy figure appearing from within, Robert bangs on the door again, louder and longer than before. He knows he’ll stand here all night if he has to, but the cowardly part of him fears waking up half the village in the process. He would rather not have any witnesses when he was reunited with Aaron properly.</p><p>After several minutes of nothing, Robert decides that there’s only one thing left. He steps back a few paces, bends to grab a handful of gravel, and chucks it forcefully at the lit-up window. Most hit their mark, rattling hard off the glass, and within seconds the light is snuffed out. <em>Mature</em>, Robert thinks, and then grabs another handful of gravel. He’s got his arm raised, ready to aim, when he senses movement somewhere inside. He doesn’t have time to compose himself before the door is flung open and Aaron is revealed.</p><p>Robert stands, frozen in mid-motion, the stones turning to lead in his hand. He can’t do much more than stare, taking in the man he last saw properly eight years earlier. It’s not that he imagined things wouldn’t have changed, and he had at least a second or two before to see what time had done to him, but still.</p><p>Aaron is entirely different. His hair is cropped short and contrasts sharply with his thick, dark beard. He’s both smaller and bigger than Robert remembered. He fills the doorframe with his shoulders, and his navy button-down strains across the muscles in his arms. Robert knows better than to let his eyes linger, but a familiar ache settles in his gut regardless.</p><p><em>Focus</em>.</p><p>He averts his gaze back to Aaron’s eyes. They’re still as bright and burning as before, but the wide-eyed softness of Robert’s memories has been replaced by a hard glint that is unmistakable in its coldness.</p><p>“I’m here for Liv.” He says it slowly, calmly, as if approaching a caged and starving animal. He doesn’t know Aaron anymore, and he has no idea how the sound of his voice will alter the charged tension between them.</p><p>Aaron says nothing. He barely blinks, but Robert can see the muscles in his jaw twitching imperceptibly. He’s keeping himself together, but one wrong word and Robert knows that anger will be uncontrollable.</p><p>“I know what it looked like. I’m not staying there, not really. I just needed somewhere for a day or two before I got on my feet. I couldn’t ask anyone else.” He says it as a plea and realises too late that it’s the wrong call. Aaron scrapes his teeth across his bottom lip, dragging it into his mouth, and when he speaks the words are dangerously low.</p><p>“You have family.”</p><p>The implication is clear. Liv is no relation to Robert, not anymore, and Aaron resents any attempt at renewing their relationship. Robert understands. He really does. But that bitterness, stoked by years of silence and loneliness, is hard to repress.</p><p>“None that could help. Diane’s not back from her cruise and Vic has Harry to think about. I couldn’t go to either of them.”</p><p>Aaron remains very still, but Robert isn’t fooled into thinking that that explanation has smoothed over any of the cracks. He’s still on very thin ice.</p><p>“She should have told you where to go.” His voice is deep and unyielding, and Robert feels the desperate need to try and coax out the softer, gentler side of him that he knows is buried somewhere inside.</p><p>“She’s a decent person.”</p><p>“She’s an idiot,” Aaron counters, and it’s too harsh for Robert to believe him.</p><p>“Don’t. You don’t mean that.”</p><p>It’s like a starting pistol going off. Robert hadn’t realised how tightly coiled Aaron was, but when he lunges he does so with such speed and ferocity that Robert can do nothing but let it happen. Aaron’s hands find their familiar purchase in the front of Robert’s shirt and hauls him forward so that their faces are too close. It’s perverse and insane, but the mad part of Robert’s mind feels strangely relieved. It might not be the kind of physical contact he’s been craving, but it’s a Hell of a lot more than he ever thought he’d get. From Aaron, at least.</p><p>“<em>Don't tell me what I do and don’t mean</em>,” Aaron spits out, oblivious – thankfully – to Robert’s thoughts. His teeth are bared, shining white in the pale moonlight overhead. Robert can’t tear his eyes away.</p><p>“She’s your sister,” Robert tries again, remaining perfectly still. “You love her.”</p><p>Aaron shakes his head. “<em>My </em>sister wouldn’t have done this. <em>My </em>sister hates you even more than I do.”</p><p>It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. And yet that inflection in Aaron’s tone, that possessiveness, is enough for Robert to push back a little.</p><p>“She’s come round,” he argues, now meeting Aaron’s gaze and refusing to look away.</p><p>“Fell for your lies, has she?”</p><p>“No. I sent her a letter and she answered.”</p><p>Aaron scoffs. “That simple?”</p><p>“Maybe she was looking for a brother she could rely on. Considering her real one abandoned her.”</p><p>He sees it before the words have fully left his mouth. Feels the regret spreading cold through his veins as Aaron’s hands fall to his sides and he takes a step back. Wounded.</p><p><em>You swore you’d never hurt him again. </em>Seems he can’t help lying even now, even when it’s to himself.</p><p>The need to close the gap is too strong but Robert aborts the decision to move closer when he takes in Aaron’s changed expression. It’s not anger or hatred. It’s so much more than that.</p><p>“That what you are now, then, is it? Hero of the hour?” Aaron doesn’t wait for a response, his mouth now carved into an unnerving smile. “Swoop in and save her from big, bad Aaron. Convince her she doesn’t need a brother like me when she could have you instead?”</p><p>“You’re twisting–”</p><p>“You’re a parasite.” It lances at him, scoring its savage letters into his chest. “You’re gonna take her for everything she has and then leave her in the dust. We’ll see who’s the hero then.”</p><p>He can’t help it. He flinches back from the barbed hatred in Aaron’s voice, stares at him with betrayal no doubt etched into every line of his face. “Is that honestly who you think I am?”</p><p>Aaron stares right back, unfeeling. “It’s what you did to me, isn’t it?”</p><p>It flashes, white hot, in front of him. That final moment, both of them curved around each other, Robert breaking as he forced out the last words he thought he’d ever say to Aaron. He had been cruel to be kind, severing every tie as if love was a limb to be amputated. But he sees it now, sees the scar he left, the wound that won’t ever fully heal. Is it any wonder Aaron can’t bear the sight of him?</p><p>“I’m not here for that,” he says softly, winded by the accusation. “I’m here to talk–”</p><p>“About Liv, I know,” Aaron interrupts. “Only you don’t get to throw your weight around at <em>my </em>home and then tell <em>me </em>what we’re gonna talk about.”</p><p>It’s the possessiveness in his tone which snaps Robert out of his guilt. He thinks of Liv sobbing on the floor, and how upset she must have been when her home was taken from her. He can’t hold his tongue any longer.</p><p>“Only it’s not just yours, is it? It’s hers, too. Which is why I don’t understand how you think you can chuck her out. Are you forgetting whose money bought this place?”</p><p>“Mine,” Aaron says firmly, and Robert takes a step forward.</p><p>“Wrong.”</p><p>“<em>Right</em>.” Aaron matches him, closing the space almost completely. “I bought Liv out a few years ago. This is <em>my</em> house.”</p><p>“What?” His head is full of static, Aaron’s words barely registering.</p><p>“Forgot to mention that part, did she?”</p><p>“Then… if you bought her out, why was she still staying with you?” Robert stammers. “And why is she living with Gabby now when she could buy something herself?”</p><p>“Ask her,” Aaron replies, impassive as stone.</p><p>“I’m asking you,” Robert retorts, not one to be dissuaded when there’s clearly more to this than he realised. Aaron’s shoulders square a little but almost instantly the flare of anger subsides and he begins to turn as if to walk away.</p><p>“I’m done with this conversation.”</p><p>Robert feels the panic swell in him and he takes an unsteady step towards Aaron.</p><p>“Wait. Hang on!” He sounds desperate but he’s too afraid of going back to Liv empty-handed to not at least try. </p><p>“Whatever it is you’re angry at her for, you can’t use me as an excuse not to speak to her.” He says it softly as he carefully circles round so he’s facing Aaron again. “Tonight… tonight you were going to apologise. Or at least try and sort things. The only reason you didn’t was because you saw me.”</p><p>Aaron waits a beat for Robert to continue but when nothing else is forthcoming he says: “And?”</p><p>It’s not much, but at least he’s not walking away which is something. Robert drops his voice further, hoping that if he’s barely whispering then Aaron won’t be tempted to deck him.</p><p>“Don’t use me as a shield. You can’t hide behind your hatred of me just to avoid speaking to her.”</p><p>“Wise words. Pity I don’t listen to anything that comes out of that mouth, eh?” On the word <em>mouth</em>, Robert’s eyes drop to Aaron’s lips involuntarily.</p><p>“You know I’m right,” he murmurs, hand moving to barely cup Aaron’s elbow. Aaron’s gaze falters as he searches for the source of the touch, then returns to stare Robert down.</p><p>“That’s not a safe place to stand.” There’s a menace to his voice, a hard glinting edge that makes Robert shiver with anticipation. It reminds him of their first encounters, when everything was a fight but the rewards were oh-so worth the pain.</p><p>“Never is with you,” he says, smile crooked, then squeezes Aaron’s elbow just a little as if to remind him as well of what they had. “Good job I like a bit of danger.”</p><p>And just like that, Aaron goes still. Robert freezes too, aware he’s made a mistake but unsure just how bad the damage is yet. He waits, heart in his mouth, as Aaron’s eyes glaze with an emotion Robert can’t read. Then, without warning, he lets out a cold laugh.</p><p>“Really? <em>Really?”</em></p><p>“Aaron–”</p><p>“You are fucking delusional, mate. You are out of your <em>mind</em> if you think I’d ever go near you again.” It’s the rejection Robert has been praying never to hear, and is so much worse than anything he could have dreamt of in a prison cell. “Go on. Piss off and go back to my sister, since you’re both so much happier with each other.” Aaron shoves at his chest for good measure, putting some space between them. His handprints burn through to Robert’s skin and he rubs his own palm across the cotton of his shirt as if to relieve the ache.</p><p>“She’s not happy,” he says, functioning mostly on auto-pilot. “I left her on the floor sobbing her heart out. She’s blaming herself for everything.”</p><p>Aaron blows out a breath, the anger making him restless as he paces across the gravel. “Good. Maybe she’ll learn her lesson this time.”</p><p>It’s too cold, too unfeeling for Robert not to react. No matter what Aaron thinks of Robert, he loves his sister still, and this… this just isn’t him.</p><p>“Washing your hands, then?” Robert bites back, feeling his own repressed rage breaking free of its restraints. “Never mind that you’re the only family she has. Never mind that she’s stuck by you through everything.”</p><p>“Since when were you her biggest fan, anyway? You hated her guts before.”</p><p>“No, I didn’t,” Robert denies sharply, even if he still vividly remembers their petty, bitter arguments. “We didn’t always get on, but I loved her because I love–“ He hauls in a breath to stop the end of the sentence from escaping, but he knows Aaron has heard it just as easily as if he’d voiced the word aloud. They stand, mute and waiting, neither wanting to acknowledge what Robert has almost admitted.</p><p>“This isn’t going anywhere. Get lost, Robert.” Aaron’s voice is weaker now, less sure. And Robert’s always been good at spotting weaknesses, particularly when he can use them to get what he wants.</p><p>“What is it she did that was so unforgivable?” he asks, and tells himself that riling Aaron again is the only chance he has of fixing things for Liv. Aaron runs his tongue along his bottom teeth and Robert braces before delivering the final blow: “Apart from siding with your boyfriend, I mean.”</p><p>It hits its target. Aaron blanches if only for a second, realising that Robert knows more about his life than he anticipated. He swallows, ducks his head as if guilty, and Robert feels the urge to apologise just as Aaron’s hands curl back into fists.</p><p>“Partner,” he corrects, a challenge in his eyes, and Robert knows he’s done it purely to twist the knife in. It works. “And that’s not how it was.”</p><p>“No? Then what am I not seeing?” Robert asks, ignoring the searing pain behind his ribs as <em>partner </em>roils inside him.</p><p>“Sorry, I must have missed the part where I have to explain myself to you.”</p><p>“You do if you want me to leave. Otherwise I’m staying put.” He folds his arms across his chest as if to prove the point. Aaron considers this for a moment, then digs in his back pocket and pulls out a mobile.</p><p>“Not if I call the police.”</p><p>It’s instantaneous. Robert’s whole body flinches, and he feels the phantom press of cold steel at his wrists as if the cuffs are already tightening round them.</p><p>The betrayal is enough to wind him and he regards Aaron, barely breathing when he says: “Nicely played.”</p><p>Aaron merely shrugs. “I learnt from the best.”</p><p>It sinks its teeth into him, fury poisoning his insides. “You know, you never used to be this much of a prick.”</p><p>“You what?”</p><p>“<em>You!” </em>Robert yells, and takes a small amount of satisfaction at the slight jump Aaron gives in response. “Standing there all high and mighty, acting like you’ve never done anything wrong in your life. We make mistakes, Aaron. One of the reasons–”</p><p>He stops himself, bites down hard on his tongue to stop the words fast spilling from his mouth. “You’re a good person. You forgive, even when they’ve hurt you, even when you could just walk away.”</p><p>“And look how that turned out.”</p><p>“She’s not me, Aaron,” Robert argues sharply, but his voice breaks a fraction at the end, betraying the hurt he feels at having to say that. “And just because she tried to help me out, doesn’t make her a bad person. In fact it makes her the <em>opposite</em>. And it shows how well you’ve done bringing her up to be like you. So just… forgive her. Please. She doesn’t deserve this.”</p><p>He watches for any changes in Aaron's expression, any tiny shifts that might signal he's coming round, but his face remains unreadable. He says nothing for a few seconds, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets and backing up a step so that he's closer to the house.</p><p>“Are you leaving now?” is all he eventually asks, and Robert is too tired to argue anymore. He's done all he can... and it isn't enough.</p><p>“Fine,” he says weakly, watching as Aaron heads for the door, and then with the last sliver of energy he has left, asks: “At least promise me you’ll think about it?”</p><p>Aaron turns to look at him, eyes blank. </p><p>“I’m not promising you anything,” he answers before heading inside and slamming the door shut behind him, leaving Robert firmly out in the cold.</p>
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